


Sherlocked

by wholockian719



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:19:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 33,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholockian719/pseuds/wholockian719
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of Sherlock and his army doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> My first story on this website! R and R and enjoy! :)

Chaos. Complete and utter chaos. John was surrounded by so. much. chaos. The hot sun beat down on the soldiers and mad them all long for the cool dampness of London. John's unit had just been ambushed as they were on their way back to camp. John was working with the other medics to get a temporary medical station setup, so that they could address the most pressing of wounds. The ambush was almost over, just a few of the enemy left. The doctors were all ready to go collect the injured.

"Help!" a voiced called out from the field. The voice sounded rather feeble, and John could tell that he needed help, quick. The voice was that of a young soldier, and was full of the fear of death. It ever ounce of restraint that John had to keep from running out to save him.

"Please somebody, help!" The voice was panicky now, and quickly fading. John knew that running out there before the 'all clear' was foolhardy, but the plight of the young soldier caused his heart to overpower his brain, and dash out to his fallen comrade. That soldier was still alive, and could remain that way if John got to him. The army doctor peeked around the truck he and his fellow doctors were setting up behind. He saw no immediate danger, so John broke into an all-out sprint towards the Soldier. John got to the young man in one piece, and cried "I've got you! I'm here-" At that moment John felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. As he glanced down at it, the world started to spin. A bullet had ripped through his shoulder, and could have hit his sub-clavian artery. There was certainly enough blood. It was on this thought that John's knees buckled under him, and he crumbled to the ground. The last thing he heard before he blacked out was a distinctly British voice yelling "ALL CLEAR!" Then, nothing.


	2. Nighttime Excursion

Dr. John Watson bolted upright, jolted from his sleep by the dream he had just had. He grasped his shoulder where the bullet had torn through it those years ago, and winced as a dull pain shot through it. His dream had seemed so real. The sun had felt so hot,and the bullet so painful. But John was home at 221 B Baker St. in London. His dreams always seemed so real. John tried to shake off the nightmare, but it was impossible. The clatter of gunshot still beat against the inside of his head.

Maybe some tea will do the trick, thought John.

So John slipped out from beneath the covers, put on his dressing robe, and started his descent. He glanced at his alarm clock on his way out and groaned.

4 a.m.

The red light on the display seemed to mock him. John would never be able to get back to sleep in time for any proper sleep. And the little time he had already gotten had been fitful, and not at all restful. He was in for a long day. As John reached the downstairs, a small detail came to his attention. The downstairs was quiet. John looked curiously around. No Sherlock.

Could Sherlock actually be asleep? John thought.

He crept silently towards Sherlock's room, excitement building, as he hardly ever was allowed to be in this room. John gently pushed the door open and popped his head inside. There was Sherlock, passed out on his bed.

he looks so different this way.

John was so mesmerized that he subconsciously moved farther into the room. All John ever saw of the detective was the full-on, battle-ready mode. Sherlock was always thinking,moving and/or deducing. In this state, with all activity in that amazing brain stopped. It was calming to watch. John stood there and just watched for a bit. When Sherlock mumbled something and moved around, John blushed. Here he was, a completely STRAIGHT man, watching his flatmate, his best mate, sleep. John retreated, embarrassed.

Despite the embarrassment, John felt oddly at peace. He went to sit on the couch, all notions of tea making forgotten. John felt himself quickly grow tired, which was unusual. He normally tossed and turned for an hour before feeling comfortable enough to sleep. Instead of jeopardizing the sleep, the doctor remained on the couch and drifted off to sleep.


	3. Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes awoke as a small noise interrupted his sleep. Based on the amount of light( which wasn't much) and his own refreshed state, the detective deduced that it mush be about four in the morning.

Strange thought Sherlock Usually, I am the only source or noise in this flat at this time or morning. Could John be awake? Why would he be awake? Perhaps he had another nightmare. I hope my John is OK. A small smile spread over Sherlock's lips as he realized that he had just put his flatmate in the possessive.

Since the first case he and John had worked together, Sherlock had known that Doctor John Watson was the only person for him. But Sherlock also knew that John could never love him back. John was so full of life and goodness, and he, Sherlock, was so very opposite. Everyone thought of Sherlock as a freak and could in no way be human. How could John, someone so incredibly dynamic, ever love a machine like Sherlock. The thought saddened Sherlock, but he shoved it to the back of his mind, along with all his other useless emotions.

Sherlock stood up, wrapped himself in his sheet and walked out of his room. As he walked into the kitchen for a small snack, he was taken aback to find a sleeping John on the couch. This sleeping John had a pleasant countenance, and was deathly still, apart from the rise and fall off his chest. Sherlock could tell that John was in a deep sleep because of the rapid movement of his eyes underneath his eyelids. Sherlock was pleased to also notice that his sleep was devoid of the nightmares that usually plagued the ex-army doctor at night.

Sherlock leaned over the back of the couch, and gently, with one long finger, caressed the jaw line of the sleeping man. John's army training kicked in at his touch, causing him to stir. Sherlock quickly scampered off to his microscope, so that when John sat up, he detective would appear busy.

"Sherlock..." John sighed in his sleep. Sherlock stayed on his stool. John mumbled some more, then shifted into a slightly different position, and resumed sleeping. Sherlock glanced up after a minute with no follow-up noise from John. His heart gave a little flutter when Sherlock realized that John had whispered his name while sleeping, meaning that, at least subconsciously, John was thinking or dreaming of him.

Maybe John could... no of course not. Who could ever love me?

Sherlock couldn't even entertain the possibility without copious amounts of data first.

Confident that John would remain asleep for awhile longer, Sherlock grabbed some fruit, and sat down next to John on the couch. Sherlock gently placed one hand on John's. Content, Sherlock sighed and watched John's face as he slept. The complete focus on John allowed Sherlock a temporary reprieve from the utter chaos that was his mind.


	4. The Beginning of the End

John woke up to a sore back and a bright light coming through the window. It took him a minute to remember why. John sat up, stretched a bit, then looked around. He expected to find Sherlock in the middle of some crazy experiment. However, there was no Sherlock anywhere to be seen.

He couldn't possibly still be asleep. John thought, slightly concerned. He got up and checked Sherlock's room. Sure enough, no detective. John came out and checked to see if Sherlock's coat was still hanging up by the door. It was missing.

Where could he possibly be?! Surely he would have woken me up if a new case had come up.

John hurried up to his room to check his phone for a message from him. None. John decided to wait a bit longer before he really started worrying, and went downstairs to make some tea. Before the kettle could whistle, the door downstairs opened.

"Sherlock!" John called as he rushed around the corner to see if it was indeed the detective who was coming in. There he was surprised to see Sherlock surrounded by several grocery bags.

Sherlock never goes grocery shopping...?

"I noticed that we were out of a few things, so I went to the store." Sherlock said with a smile.

"What caused this," John asked smirking "you've had me fetch your phone out of your jacket pocket so that you could send a text, while you were wearing the jacket. And now you're going and getting groceries for us?"

"I am quite capable of doing things for your convenience, John," Sherlock half-teased, "I am not useless." Sherlock let a little bit of pout show on his face to try and persuade John of this. John just smiled and said "Here, let me help you with these."

Sometime after they had finished putting up the groceries, and John had made his tea, Sherlock received a call.

"Yes, what do you want Lestrade? A murder! Yes we will be there soon- Come along Watson!"

Sherlock whirled out of the room in a flurry of coat and scarf. John hurriedly grabbed his gun and coat, and followed suit. John had just locked the door to 221B when Sherlock boomed "Taxi!"

John marveled at how magnificently low Sherlock's voice was. It went well with his tall, skinny figure, and lovey cheekbones.

Stop that John, he mentally chastised himself for thinking of Sherlock in that way. Sherlock was his male flatmate. Not only that, but Sherlock was just so, weird. But at the same time, so very amazing. John could not fathom how the detective's mind could figure out half the things it did, or how Sherlock could say some of the things he did. Despite the bad, John felt all the good outweighed the bad, and while John was put-off by Sherlock's rudeness, John had come to be quite fond of the incredible man.

When the cab pulled up, Sherlock climbed in first and told the cabbie where to go before John got in.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"To the crime scene John, weren't you listening?" Sherlock joked.

"Very funny." John muttered as he rolled his eyes. The rest of the ride passed in silence.

They pulled up to a seedy looking hotel on the outskirts of London. Sherlock practically leaped out of the cab. John chuckled at Sherlock's eagerness. It was another one of those endearing characteristics he had. Always so eager to solve the next case. Sherlock could have done s many things with his high intelligence, but Sherlock had chosen to do something important: he chose to solve the unsolvable, put families at peace, and he helped prevent evil do-ers. He helped people, just as John did.

I guess we have more in common than I thought. That is a scary thought John sniggered at this thought as he followed Sherlock's example in getting out of the cab. By the time Watson had paid the cabbie and made it over to Lestrade, Sherlock was fuming.

"You called me over for something so simple?! How idiotic are you! Don't answer that was rhetorical, we all know you're an idiot." Sherlock sneered.

"Well I'm sorry for wasting your time, Your Royal Genius! Next time I'll make sure the case is unsolvable before we call. Say how is that one case about the aluminum crutch going?hmm?" Lestrade angrily retorted.

"Come on John-we are !" Sherlock shouted.

Confused, Watson followed close behind Sherlock.

"Mind telling me what happened there Sherlock? Why we drove all the way over here, only to go and leave?"

"Yes." Sherlock huffed. John rolled his eyes, but remained silent as he got back into the cab with the irritated man. Most of the car ride passed in silence until-

"She smelled heavily of cleaning supplies, died by drowning in dirty water, and was last seen with the head of the cleaning staff, how much more obvious can you get?"

"How does drowning fit? There's not a body of water close." John questioned.

"Think John! Use that brain, it gets so little exercise! Mop water!" Sherlock said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Lestrade said he called me in as soon as he got the case, so that I wouldn't waste any time. He just assumed that i had nothing else to do, and would not be wasting my time by coming down here."

"But, Sherlock, you weren't doing anything.." John pointed out.

"That is beside the point." Sherlock grumped. The ride was silent once more until a few minutes later when-

"Yes, what do you want now Lestrade? Better be more interesting than the last one. A missing painting? Boring. Its called the Reichenbach Falls?...


	5. Despair

"This phone call, its ah- its my note...that's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" John almost welcomed the rich deep voice, even if it was a harbinger of something detestable. It was so strong, even in the face of impending death. His voice sounded so weak in comparison. He hated it. It sounded so weak. How could John be so weak compared to the man who was about to jump?

"Leave a note, when?" How could John have been so stupid. When else do people leave notes? He felt despair. It was about to happen, and John, weak as he was, did nothing. Absolutely nothing. I he had even a tenth of Sherlock's brains, he would have figured something out, he would have found a way to save his friend. His best friend, whom he had let fall.

"Goodbye, John." and with that, Sherlock fell. He looked so different from his usual graceful self. He flapped his arms like a bird who's too young to fly. It was pitiful. It was painful to watch. John's heart fell just as fast as Sherlock. The seconds it took for him to fall seemed like hours. John ran. He knew it was futile, that even if he did make it to Sherlock before he hit the ground, there was no way for Watson to Save him. The best he could do was possibly kill himself as well trying to stop his fall. But John would have welcomed that. Anything would be better than this Hell that John's living. He will never make it in time. He just wishes he could make it to tell Sherlock one last thing. But John is sentenced to living on without Sherlock. The broken body of the genius detective is lying on the pavement. The worst feeling in the world comes over John. The feeling of helplessness.

And John had to live this scene, over and over.


	6. Surprise

John woke up, covered in sweat. The sheets were askew, where he had been active in his sleep. He had the nightmare again. His nightmares always seemed so real. He'd had it almost every night since the light in his world had gone out. The damn fall. The Reichenbach Fall. John shuddered at the name. Reichenbach. Richard Brooks. Jim Moriarty. Moriarty. His best mates archnemisis. He had died that day on the rooftop. That was the only saving grace of that day. The worlds most dangerous criminal. Dead. But the worlds only consulting detective, also dead. John wished it could have been him. The world would always need Sherlock Holmes, but the only reason they needed John Watson was to update the blog. John did his best to help Lestrade and Scotland Yard, but it depressed him being on cases without Sherlock.

John had considered suicide. It wasn't the first time. He thought back to the day he met Sherlock Holmes. Just Two days earlier, he had tried to end it. He had put the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger. Luckily, the gun had been out of bullets at the time. John thanked God every day for that turn of events. If he had gone through with it then, he never would have met Sherlock.

If I hadn't met Sherlock, I would have been dead long ago... Watson realized. Watson had so much he wanted to tell Sherlock, so much he wanted to thank him for. But now he couldn't. John knew he would never get back to sleep. He didn't sleep much these days anyways. He just sat a read the papers, although they did nothing but depress him, and had also started working out. John found that this physical activity helped him work out his frustrations. John had developed some muscle in the year that Sherlock had been gone. Before, he had been strong, but now he had the muscle to show off. It was John's funny little way of saying to life that he was strong enough to survive that day.

When John did get out of the house, his new muscle didn't go unnoticed. Several different ladies had hit on John, but after the first few, John gave up. They were all missing something, and John knew he wouldn't find it in any of these women. So he gave up. That seemed to be all John was doing these days. Giving up on sleep, giving up on regularly eating, giving up on normal human life. John decided that some tea was in order. Earl Grey sounded nice. So John put the pot on, and sauntered around the flat, wearing just a sheet, much like Sherlock used to. John sighed as he thought about Sherlock.

Suddenly, there was a tentative knock on the inner door.

Who could it be at bloody 2 in the morning?

John went over and peeked out the door. All he could see was a tall, slim figure.

"My dear Watson."


	7. Real?

Sherlock had awaited this moment. Ever since he knew he had to jump. To save John. His John. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade as well, but mainly, John. He knew John might be angry, but Sherlock didn't care. His fall may not have cracked his skull open, but it did allow the emotional floodgates that were usually sealed shut good and tight to burst open. This was all so new to Sherlock. Feelings and emotions. Sherlock was not a fan.

"John, I am home" Sherlock said, barely louder than a whisper. John simply stood there with his mouth slightly open, as if he had been about to say something, but the comment never made it out.

"I understand you may be suffering from shock, but could you please say something, or make some kind of noise, please John?" Sherlock had waited for the day he would get to be back with John.

"How?" John whispered just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. There was a bit of despair in the older man's eyes, almost as if...

"You think I would've jumped without a plan? My dear Watson, your doubt pains me." Sherlock weakly chuckled. That despair in John's eyes upset Sherlock. It must mean that John thought...

"I must be dreaming...my dreams are always so real..." John muttered. Then he pinched his own arm and winced a little at the resulting pain.

Oh God, John thought, my visions aren't just dreams now.

"John?" Sherlock asked, hurt that John would question whether or not he was real. He had jumped off a building for this man. He had stayed low key until he was sure that all of Moriarty's henchmen were...indisposed, so that they wouldn't bother John and himself anymore. In that time, Sherlock's mind had spit out millions of different ways this meeting could have gone, but none of them had included the possibility of John not even believing he was real.

Sherlock to a step forwards towards John. He dropped the small duffel bag he was holding, and reached towards John, as if to prove that he was real and tangible.

John recoiled from this movement. He couldn't handle this. Sherlock had been dead for three years. Three long years that had taken a heavy toll on John. John had done his best to put up a strong front, and had managed to keep the minimal crying confined to the flat. John had watched Sherlock fall, had heard the sickening crunch when the detective had hit the pavement. John could see the look of rejection on Sherlock's face, an emotion that would have been invisible to anyone but John. John had known Sherlock so well.

Of course my subconscious would drag this up on the anniversary of the event. John thought.

"John? Please John..." Sherlock quietly pleaded.

"You can't possibly be real...you just can't..."John whispered, mostly to himself. John took a hesitant step forward and stretched out his arm so that he could touch Sherlock's face. But his hand stopped just short.

"I can't, I just can't..." John said as he turned and hurried off to his room.

Once in his room, John curled up under his duvet He was really losing it now. He was hallucinating about his dead flatmate. Sherlock couldn't be alive. He had jumped from the roof of Saint Barts and had died along with all of John's dreams. Sherlock had been his only real friend. Lestrade did okay, and his old army and college buddies sometimes called, but they couldn't compare with Sherlock. No one could. John had grown to care for Sherlock. He was utterly amazed at all of Sherlock's layers and the complexity of his had been struggling two years now to move on past the death of his best mate. But nothing had worked. Every night the bloody dream happened, and when John woke, the dream always stayed fresh in his mind. He had managed to keep up with the necessary bills by helping Lestrade on cases that normally both Sherlock and himself would consult on, but other than that John didn't do much outside of the flat.

There was so much that John wished he could tell the real Sherlock. He had settled with telling them to Sherlock's grave. It had listened better than Sherlock would've. John had poured his heart into that speech. It had been beautiful. Perfect. But Sherlock could never hear it. Those words fell upon dead ears.

A tear rolled down John's face as he reminded himself of this fact. He was so caught up in this that John did not notice the door to his room open.


	8. Believe

"John?" Sherlock quietly questioned, his deep baritone voice wavering as he tried to mask the emotion that threatened to well up and spill over. John had rejected him. He had walked away and left Sherlock standing there. The detective had yearned be back in John's life; He had waited patiently to be with his John again. Sherlock was paralyzed with fear over this rejection. Did John no longer want him? Sherlock had been so sure that John was missing him the same way he was missing John. Though John's feeling were most likely strictly platonic. Sherlock could handle that. He had always handled that. He had never understood emotions. He was so sure that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side. But since Dr. John Watson had come along, all that had started to change.

He still didn't think much of emotions, but he had started to feel. He had started to smile more often, cracked jokes and chuckled. He was finding a better life that wasn't always black and white. He found that the world could be bright and colorful. Of course, Sherlock had built a separate room in his mind palace for this new world of emotion. He shoved all those in so that he would not be distracted. But those emotions had a funny way of sneaking out when least expected. And there were certain times, late at night when regular people slept, where Sherlock allowed those emotions out, and he would revel in the beauty they created. It was at these times when Sherlock most wanted John. One of those times, was now. So the detective, after a short pause, followed after the doctor.

Sherlock moved silently, as always, up the stair. He hesitated at the door and placed his ear on the door so as to deduce what John was doing. He didn't hear snuffles, he wasn't sobbing. He heard nothing. Sherlock prepared himself for the worst, and barged inside. He looked around the room until his eyes found John, who was curled up on the bed.

"John, I am here. I am real," Sherlock asserted.

John looked up from his bed. His hair was untidy from where he had curled up into the pillow, and on his face, a few tears streaks could be seen. Sherlock looked to his eyes. They were watery and full of confusion, despair, and betrayal, but there was also something else. Hope. John appeared to be on the verge of some kind of mental breakdown.

"Sherlock, how do I know that you are real?" John croaked. His eyes hungrily took in the tall detective. This form he had missed for so long. Now, it seemed bittersweet that he should see it again, as it obviously indicated some kind of mental snap.

Oh well John thought maybe I don't care, if it means I get to see him again. That sounds crazy, even to myself, but honestly, I'm past caring.

John relaxed into the bed and stared up at Sherlock, looking slightly dazed.

Understandable Sherlock thought he thinks he is hallucinating. He saw me fall, and didn't know of my plan. A perfectly logical solution. He's probably frightened that some kind of mental problem is starting...How can I prove that I'm real.

Endless possibilities blazed through Sherlock's mind. He eliminated each one just as quickly as it came up, knowing the downfalls of each one. For he knew John, knew how his mind worked, and what could and couldn't convince him. The detective had done what he did best, and all those months with John, he had been gathering data, seeing and observing. He was slightly embarrassed to admit it, but he had done it so that he would know how to best woo John Watson, when the time came to put a plan into action. Now seemed to be a good time to use that knowledge. Sherlock eliminated all but one possibility.

This is crazy, but it is the only possibility. And when all other possibilities are eliminated, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.

So Sherlock strode over to John's bed, grabbed John up off the bed, and pulled him into a hug. It felt so good to Sherlock, to be touching again, Holding his army doctor in his arms. He felt the warm rush of confusion.

"Sh-Sherlock, what the bloody hell-!" John sputtered, completely taken aback by this action. Never in a million years would he have thought that Sherlock could make emotion physical contact with another person. To be quite honest, John figured that intimate contact would cause him physical pain. Sherlock barely liked to shake people's hand, or allow even the briefest forms of physical contact, and now here he was, hugging John. John tried to squirm away to get a better look at Sherlock.

Sherlock just hugged tighter, willing John to feel how real Sherlock was. The tall man loved how well he and John fit together while embracing. John's head was high enough to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, but low enough to where he could bury his face into John's blond hair. Sherlock tried to take it all in, memorizing everything about John, the feel, the warmth, even the smell.

John was utterly confused by his hallucination's actions. He enjoyed it, but was baffled.

The Sherlock I knew would never do this. For that matter, how could a hallucination do this? He feels so real, but all of my dreams do. I can feel the sweat in my dreams, feel the cool of the pavement outside St. Barts., feel the impossible arms of Sherlock Holmes around him. A new thought slammed into John's brain. Those other dreams felt real because I have lived them. My mind was able to put those sensations into my dreams because I've experienced them before! But this is new. Sherlock has never hugged anyone, as far as I can tell. How could my mind insert this sensation into a dream? It has to be real. And it feels so right.

With this thought, John pulled Sherlock tighter into this embrace. His mind rejoiced, as he fully comprehended that Sherlock was real, had to be real. The army doctor allowed himself to mold himself into the hug. He let all the tension and rigidity that he had been hanging onto go, and let himself enjoy the feeling of Sherlock's deceptively strong arms around him.

Sherlock chuckled when he felt the tension leave John's body. He could feel the acceptance and joy radiate from John, and was absolutely thrilled. He allowed his face to nestle into John's hair, and let the euphoria he felt cleanse his brain of any thought that wasn't John.

After standing like this for a while, neither party wishing to be the first to surrender its hold over the other, Sherlock noticed John's weariness.

A combination of the late hour and lack of restful sleep no doubt Sherlock deduced. So quickly and smoothly, Sherlock pulled them both down onto the bed. It was rather small for both of them, so John ended up more on top of him than anything.


	9. The Morning After

John was falling. Falling through the air, just as Sherlock had a year ago. He didn't remember jumping, or even being on a roof. He just had the sensation that he had been falling for quite some time. He was glad he was falling. He had lived long enough without Sherlock, and simply could not take it anymore. He knew he had made the decision, he just couldn't remember going through with it, until this point.

It didn't feel at all like he expected it though. He expected a sharp, cold, unforgiving wind to be billowing around him, pushed to the limits by the speed of his fall. He expected expected his stomach to fly up his throat as gravity temporarily lost its affects during the free fall time. He expected his hair to whipping around him, everything around him to be a blur into a swirl of depressing blues and greys as he speed downwards. He expected to feel a goodbye.

This was practically the polar opposite of what he expected. The breeze was warm and comforting around him. It wasn't hot, just comfortable. It seemed to cradle him as delicately as a mother cradles her newborn, and as tenderly as a lover holds his partner. It seemed to cushion him from the demons that haunted him at every turn his life took. The world around him seemed to blaze in many different hues of red and pink and orange and yellow. He had a warm feeling in his stomach that radiated outwards to warm his insides. He felt as if he were floating gently down. He was quite enjoying this, and could understand why Sherlock had chosen this way. He was glad he had followed in his best friend's foot steps.

His fall seemed to take a good while, but John knew it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. He knew adrenaline was flooding his body, causing his reaction time to speed up, which would account for this miscalculation. Suddenly, he hit something solid. The expected to feel the rough slap of his body on the concrete, and a sharp snap as his skin and bones broke. He envisioned his blood seeping out of the broken fortress that was his body. He expected everything to snap to black as his neurons were destroyed by the crushing weight of his impact.

However, John's landing was quite soft, despite the solidity of his landing pad. He felt no pain, no brokenness. He felt utterly whole. He could feel something encircling him, something strangely like a pair of arms engulfing him.

Oh God, he thought I can't even die properly, who would even want to hold me now?

However, the engulfing presence continued to hold him and keep him warm. Someone was there and still loved John Hamish Watson, and for that, John was extremely happy. A slight pressure along his jaw line jolted him out of his dream.

Sherlock gazed down at John, who had fallen asleep in Sherlock's embrace. He could have laid here for copious amount of time, just holding John. He could brave the boredom that came with idleness, as long as he knew he was making John happy. Sherlock had never thought this way before the fall, but after last night, after he saw how taxing his actions had been on John (despite the fact that they had most certainly saved his life), he had deduced that the best way to make it up to John would be to do what made John happy, not what made himself happy. Sherlock was learning. He would learn for John.

The usually emotionless man took a second to gently caress John's face. This caused the older man to stir from his sleep. As his eyes fluttered open, Sherlock beamed down at him, eagerly awaiting the wide grin that would surely spread across his face when he saw Sherlock. He knew John had missed him, and after last night, he had no doubt that John would willingly, gladly even, accept him back into his life.

But when John registered his surroundings, Sherlock saw a range of emotions splash across his face that had been totally unexpected. Surprise came first, causing a delicate pink flush to rise to John's cheeks and the muscles in John's brow to squeeze up. Surprise lingered a second until confusion reared its ugly head. The flush on the cheeks ripened to a light strawberry color, and eyes widened. The mouth popped open into a gentle 'O'. But confusion didn't stay long, as anger came quickly a second after it, and retained its place on John's countenance. He flushed even deeper red than before, and his whole faced tightened up. A fist also swung up from th depths of under the covers, and caught Sherlock squarely in the cheek.

"You complete ARSE!" John shouted at him, clamoring to get out of the bed "I waited for a whole year, telling myself you were dead! I couldn't let you go, I was ready to DIE for you, die like you! And here you just come romping back into this apartment like you never left! Don't you have any regards for anyone but yourself? You could have..sent me a text, left a clue, ANYTHING to let me know you were alive. But NO, the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't be bothered to do something so simple like that.." John continued on his tirade for a good thirty minuted befor sputtering to a stop when he had nearly worked himself into tears.

Sherlock quietly took the verbal abuse. He waited on the bed for John to burn himself out. Although, it did worry him, seeing the different shades of red John's face turned as he ranted. At one point, Sherlock was sure e was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, but when he had made a movement to interrupt, John just started speaking louder and more aggressively. Finally, Sherlock sensed that John had let out most of his steam, and proceeded to intercede.

"John,"Sherlock calmly said as he propelled himself off the bed to grab John by the shoulders, "John, listen to m. I am going to explain everything to you, but you must. calm. down." He steered John to the bed and plopped him down. The he began to explain. He started from the very first of the pip clues, and talked for a good hour, detailing everything that had happened, and how he and Molly had plotted to trick Moriarty and his men into thinking that Sherlock had actually died.

As he talked, John's body began to relax, as Sherlock's soothing baritone voice soothed him with the tale of how Sherlock had beat Moriarty, and had acted so selflessly to save John's life. John could hardly believe that Sherlock, a man who, aside from his brother Mycroft, was the most apathetic person on the planet, had given up the life he know and was comfortable with for John...and and Lestrade. John's head was spinning from all this new and seemingly impossible information.

John stood up and walked to Sherlock. He placed his hand under the taller man's chin, and moved it so he could see the cheek that he had so brutally punched earlier. He regretted his bitter act.

"How does that feel?" he asked meekly. He gently touched the cheek where he could see bruises start to form. Sherlock winced at the touch.

Shit. John cursed silently to himself, feeling evidence of a possible fracture in the zygomatic arch. A pity, considering how wonderful Sherlock's cheekbone's are. John mentally shook himself for thinking that. Where did that come from? I am not gay!

Sherlock reveled in the sensation of John's hand on his face, even if it did hurt from where John had punched him earlier. He slowly leaned in closer until John's face was less that an inch away.

John was taken aback by Sherlock's sudden proximity to his face. What the bloody hell-?


	10. Sherlock's Confusion

Sherlock gazed down into the younger man's eyes. They looked years older than the last time, other than last night, the two had met. The detective knew that his leave of absence had caused this, and he hated himself, and Moriarty for it. He felt the gentle touch of the doctor inspecting his cheek. Though it hurt a bit to touch, the feeling of John's fingers on his face was incredible. Unconciosly, he leaned in.

Sherlock saw at once that John was taken aback by the sudden proximity of their faces. The detective searched for the body's signs that John liked him. He could feel the erratic pulse of the other man, but there was something missing. No dilated pupils. John didn't want him like that. Quickly, Sherlock improvised his way out of the situation.

"So what is the diagnosis on my cheek, Dr. Watson, did you manage to crack it or is it merely bruised?" Sherlock said, rather lamely.

"Unfortunately, I do believe that it is cracked" John whispered as a wave of disappointment flooded over him. What the bloody hell? Why am I disappointed? I AM STRAIGHT! With this thought, John shook his head, pushed past Sherlock, and scampered down to the kitchen to make himself some tea. Maybe this will clear my head John hoped.

Sherlock stood there, not knowing what to do. John rejected him, again. He felt an overwhelming sorrow flood over him, so he went downstairs, got his violin from the sitting area, traipsed into his room, locked the door, and started eliciting some of the most melancholic sounds that his instrument was capable of producing. Sherlock let himself get caught in the music. As the waves of sorrow ripped through him, the music would build to a thunderous screech. Then as he would think of John, it receded and morphed into an unbearably sweet lullaby. Then thoughts of the fall would intrude, and the music would be full of diminished chords that spoke of unfinished business, and would jump up and down the octaves, then slowly fall.

He worked through his emotions until he came to a conclusion. He put down his violin, and sat upon his bed. He had an outcome, now he just needed a plan. He sprawled out on his bed, tented his hands beneath his chin, and prepared to go to his mind palace.

Sherlock arrived at the opening gates of his mind castle and glanced up to admire the size of his memory. It was rather impressive. He smiled to himself as he imagined the mind castles of the idiots that surrounded him, how small and puny they would be in comparison. He clamored his way to the wing specifically for people. He traipsed down the corridor to the door at the end of the hall. He opened it and started along the breeze way that led to the second smaller structure associated with his mind castle. This was John's mansion. Here, he stored everything he new about John, and nothing else. The inside resembled their flat, but with many more rooms, and on an immense scale.

He headed for the upstairs, where all the rooms were related to John's dating history. He paused as he reached the top and glanced around, searching for the right door. It was three doors down from where he stood and painted green. The plaque on the door read: Yes. This was where Sherlock kept information that pertained to what John like in his previous dates, and how to get him to say yes to a date. Sherlock walked in, and prepared himself for the time he would spend in this room. He went to the filing cabinet with information about John's girlfriends. It was mostly empty, as he deleted them out of jealousy. He grabbed the few files he had and sat at the nearest table. He started with Sarah, as she seemed to be the most successful of John's attempts at dating. Why did he like her? Well she's a woman. Strike one for Sherlock. She works in the same field as John. Strike two for Sherlock. She cared for others. Strike three for Sherlock. Angrily, Sherlock flipped the table with the file on it over. ow could John like Sherlock when he had already liked someone so different? Maybe that is the key...difference. That relationship didn't work out, obviously, so what differences do I have that could work in my favor?

Sherlock pondered this, straining into the dark part of his mind where he seldom wished to tred, the part where he stored information on himself. He entered the dungeon like room that was accessed by a winding staircase from either building that led deep into the ground. Once there, he did not wish to stay long. The damp dark room was lit only by a single torch on the wall that cast flickering shadows into the corners of the room. Each shadow brought with it a thought. As he entered the room, each shadow coalesced into a visual representation of its idea. He sorted through the shadows, looking for what would be helpful and what would not. A picture of a brain, alight with activity loomed up in front of him. His vast knowledge of important things. This is definitely an advantage. So he moved it the left of him. Then he came across a picture of him sitting on a throne that was sitting atop a mound of people. Arrogance, definitely not. So that one he shoved to his right. He then saw a snapshot of the two of them running after a cab. The adventurous lifestyle he lead. Definitely a plus with John. Left it went. Sherlock continued this sorting until he reached a dark corner. He felt something reach out from the depths where the torch light didn't reach. It grabbed hold of him, and dragged itself out into the light. Sherlock stared in horror as the shadow morphed into a vision he hadn't seen in a long time. It was himself, doped up on cocaine, almost to the point of overdose, holding a knife to his thigh. He could see the red dripping down from the cut he had just self inflicted, and the pure ecstasy in his eyes from the incredible high he was on. Unconsciously, his hand slipped down to his thigh, where his scar from that dark time still remained, hidden by his trousers. Sherlock turned on his heel and sprinted away as fast as he could. If he stayed too long, those dark memories would over take him, and pull him back down into a world where he would be so repulsive to John, that his best friend would leave him. For good.

Sherlock snapped out of his mind castle at this point, eager to get far away from those temptations. Sherlock swiftly got up, peeled of his clothes, got into his pyjamas and curled up onto his bed. He had been in his mind castle longer than he thought. It was now two in the morning. He was confused again after his escape, and needed more violin time. He let the music wash over him, and was lost in it. Eventually he had resorted all his feelings, so he went out, still completely unsure what to do about John, knowing only that he had to tell him about his true feelings. Truth usually worked with John, so he resolved to just go and do it. He went to the sitting room, where he had deduced that John would be, since he didn't hear him going up to his room. And there was John. Asleep. Sherlock sighed. He shouldn't wake John up, that would just make him angry. So instead, Sherlock grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, on which he wrote:

John,

Do you like me? []Yes []No

Love, Sherlock

He had seen that on some show once, and strangely had not deleted it. He folded the paper and wrote John's name on the outside. He placed it gently on John's chest, caressed his face, and went back to his room. Here he relocked his door, curled up on his bed, and proceeded to fall asleep.

When he woke up in the morning, he glanced over at his door. There on the floor, was his not from the night before.


	11. John's Choice

John rushed into the kitchen and fell against the counter while breathing heavily. He busied himself with preparing the kettle for some tea.

What the bloody hell was that? John wondered. I could have sworn he was going to kiss me, but he just hung there with those gorgeous eyes practically staring through my soul.

John chuckled at how stupid that sounded, but it was true. John had felt as if those eyes, which missed nothing, had probed him inside and out, searching the inner reachings of his mind while simultaneously cataloging his physical reactions.

At this moment, Sherlock dashed through the living room, scooped up his violin, then locked himself in his room. John felt as if a tornado had just whirled through the room, blowing away John's train of thought.

God how I've missed that man John smiled to himself. The kettle was boiling as the saddest sound John had ever heard leaked out of Sherlock's room and permeated the air with depressing emotion. It sounded like Hell warmed over, and John wondered what could possibly inspire that morbid noise to come from Sherlock's usually gorgeous sounding music. John sat in his favorite chair with his cup of tea. He grabbed the book that he had been unsuccessfully working on.

John couldn't get into his book, as the music coming from behind the locked door was enrapturing. It was bursting with emotion; currently it was full of a deep pain. It reminded John of background music that would play during a breakup scene. It was full of rejection and frustration. It drug up John's memories of when his mother had left all those years ago. He was wallowing in these memories when the music changed. It was light and frothy, much like a cold beer on a warm night with a first date. It filled him with content and easy feeling, the way life in the flat had felt before the fall.

John shuddered, because the music had shifted again, this time with his memories. It was very angsty and decisive. It was laced with a spited finality. This music brought the fall to the forefront of his mind, filling him with the horrible thoughts from right after the fall. A single tear rolled down John's face as these memories were dredged back up. He shook his head to chase away these thoughts.

He's back now, and that is all that matters John firmly asserted to himself. He pushed himself out of the chair, put the book, which he had made absolutely no progress in, aside, and walked back into the kitchen. John put his teacup under the faucet, ran some water into the cup, and swirled it around to wash it out.

Suddenly the music ceased. A little put out, John crept over to Sherlock's door. He pressed his ear to the wood, straining to hear signs of life from within. He didn't hear any noise, which was surprising, as Sherlock was hardly ever sedentary, unless...

He must have gone into his mind palace. Curious, why would he be in there? John wondered, but ultimately left him to work out whatever problem he was having. If he needed John, he could come ask. It was a little after one, so the ex-army doctor decided to treat himself to a lunch out, after which he would go grocery shopping. The food in the flat was tea, which was good, but would not function as any meal. John returned to the flat just before 5, lugging all the groceries up the seventeen stairs to 221B Baker Street. He put the kettle on, eager for some warm tea to warm him up from the blustery weather outside. While he was waiting for the kettle to boil, John put up all the groceries. Sherlock was still nowhere to be seen, or heard for that matter. John was concerned, but left him alone.

He'll come out he wants to John reasoned to reassure himself. He prepared his tea and took it with him up to his room to get ready for his shift at the surgery. He was a little excited, as a new doctor had recently been hired, and she was cute. John was pretty sure she had the late shift too. Now that Sherlock was back, John felt like the world was more right, and could actually think about things like going on dates again. He resolved himself to talking to her tonight.

Mary, I'm pretty sure that's her name John thought. He hurried out to the surgery, eager to try this prospect. That night, he was rather distracted. He tried to talk to Mary every chance he got, but they only managed a few fleeting and friendly comments while they were working. John also couldn't stop thinking about the curious actions, or lack thereof, of Sherlock. It was like trying to concentrate on three things at once, and it fatigued John. He got of at midnight, thankfully.

As he was leaving, he noticed Mary out in front of him.

"Hey, Mary!" He yelled and jogged to catch up with her. When he got there he just looked at her and smiled for a second.

"Hey, John," she replied and smiled in turn "did you need something?"

John stood there completely dumbfounded for a moment, as he had no idea what to say.

"I- I-uh... just thought..er- just thought I'd-ah...thought I'd welcome you to the new job!" John finally managed. Mary laughed as he bumbled his way through the sentence.

"Thanks, John. Your cute ya know." Mary said smiling flirtatiously at him. John felt his cheeks redden.

"Thanks-I mean... ah-you're welcome..." John mumbled with embarrassment, "here's my number, text me whenever. I'll see ya tomorrow night?"

"Sure." Mary said with a smile. John gave her a smile back, then called a cab to take him back to the apartment. Exhaustion flooded through him, but he smiled thinking about his prospects with Mary, his problems with Sherlock all but forgotten. He trudged up the steps to the flat, and once inside, he made it as far as the couch, where he collapsed upon it, pulled of his shoes, and promptly fell asleep.

He woke up earlier than normal, and a more stiff than normal. As he sat up and stretched, he noticed a note that had been situated on his chest. It was addressed to him in a loopy, familiar scrawl. His thoughts turned to Sherlock, and he noticed that the flat was quiet.

Very unlike Sherlock to still be asleep, I hope he is OK and not sick. John was concerned for his friend, as he had spent all of yesterday in his room. John left the note on the coffee table, and went to start the kettle, hoping that some morning tea would coax Sherlock out. He also popped some toast in, as it was highly unlikely that Sherlock had eaten anytime recently. He went back to the couch to await the tea and toast. He realized as he was folding up the blanket that he covered up with, that he hadn't had any dream last night. At all. No nightmares, which had seemed to haunt every night since he went to Afghanistan. It was just a period of unconsciousness. He had some nights like that only after he moved in with Sherlock, but never since the fall. It left him feeling well was tea kettle started whistling, so John got up to go prepare the tea and the toast he knew would be popping up soon. As he stood up, he noticed the note he had left minutes ago.

I'm getting so forgetful John worried I wonder what it's about. Sherlock must have come out last night after I was asleep. John moved to the kitchen with the note to take the kettle off. He grabbed two teacups, two teabags, and prepared the tea, then unfolded the note. John dropped to his butt on the floor in surprise. The quick movement caused a bolt of pain up his leg, but he ignored it and leaned back against the cabinets. The note read:

John,

Do you like me? []Yes []No

Love, Sherlock

Love Sherlock? John was very confused and more than a little surprised. But he also felt a little warm fluttery sensation in his chest. I'm not gay! John thought. It sounded more like an excuse than a fact, and made for a weak argument against himself. He reread the note, as if trying to find some deeper hidden meaning between the lines.

Love, Sherlock

Love? I never thought Sherlock could feel such a complex emotion, least of all for me. I'm just boring John Watson, and he's bloody magnificent Sherlock Holmes! John thought some more and realized that he liked the fact that he could make Sherlock feel. That he was the one person who could love Sherlock. It sent little shivers down his spine.

BUT I'M NOT GAY! Some part of his mind rebelled against the good feelings he was getting from potentially entering a homosexual relationship. He knew this part was deeply rooted in the effect coming out would have on his relationship with his father. The look of sheer detestment on his face caused a deep apprehension in John. He never wanted to be on the receiving end of that look.

So John debated back and forth with himself, the two sides battling for the war. On one hand, he had Sherlock, genius and full of adventure. But the other side took the form of Mary. There was the thrill of the chase, and a general acceptance in society. The battle was waged hard, each side sustaining some major hits, but one side was clearly winning from the beginning. As he made his choice, John wondered if there ever had been a choice. H carefully recorded his decision for Sherlock, and slipped the paper under Sherlock's door. If the detective was indeed asleep, John wanted to leave him that way, since he slept so seldom at other times. He then went and buttered the cooled toast and sipped his cool tea. John waited.


	12. Sherlock's Choice

Sherlock lept off his bed and retrieved the note from the ground. He held the note against his chest, closed his eyes, sucked in a big breath, held it, then released, letting all the tension that had built up escape with the air. This note could make him great...or worse than ever. He unfolded the note, eyes still closed, preparing himself for either opened his eyes and slowly reread the note.

John,

Do you like me? []Yes [x]No

Love, Sherlock

The room, which just seconds ago had seemed so open and roomy, seemed to shrink around him. He felt as if there was an anaconda wrapped around his chest, squeezing all the happiness, and breath, right out of him. The world around him seemed like some weird twisted dream, the edges around his peripherals fading to nothingness. The dazed man was barely even aware of the fact that his knees had given out under him, and he was now genuflecting to the door that separated him from reality.

Sherlock felt the rush of all the rejection he had ever faced crash over him relentlessly, knocking him into the ground, and trapping him underneath the flood of heartbreak. He curled up in a ball, just like he had been taught to do as a little kid at the beech in case of getting caught under a particularly fierce wave. He heard a chorus of "freak"fading in and out like a tide, malicious whispers on the low tide, and a frightening roar at high tide. His body rocked back and forth with the onslaught of rejection that threatened to drown him and carry him out far beyond the reach of any life guard.

John filled every thought of Sherlock's. No matter where he tried to turn his thoughts, John would show up. But this wasn't Sherlock's John. This was a sick twisted version that joined in with every "freak" the echoed in Sherlock's head. His voice was heard louder than any other. Sherlock felt something on his cheek. He pressed his finger to the wet spot, and looked at the dampness on his finger. He quickly brought it to his mouth.

Ugh. Salty. It was a tear that had the audacity to pour forth from his tear duct. Now that it had broken through the previously impregnable wall, it left a hole for others to follow, and a liberal amount did. Sherlock was embarrassed about the tears flowing down his face. He had been able to suppress that particular result of emotion since nursery school, when Mycroft had taught him how to stop caring. A wave of panic swept through him as he realized that this might mean that all his defenses were compromised. Though, if he were being honest with himself, they had probably taken a huge blow when he started caring for John. Despite the current heartache and vulnerable state he was currently in thanks to the army doctors doings, he couldn't find it in himself to hate John, or even mildly dislike him. He only felt love towards him, even if that love couldn't be reciprocated. How could Sherlock face John again, though?

I'll have to leave, it is the only possible solution. Sherlock quickly assessed. He managed to uncurl himself and shakily climb to his feet. He dashed around his room collecting as much as he could stuff into the largest container he could find in his room. Among the essentials were his skull and his violin. He would wait until John left for the surgery, and then make his escape. That way he could avoid a messy confrontation. Until he left, his violin would be his shot glass, and he drown his sorrows instead of letting himself drown again.

John started to worry when lunch time had come and gone. Sherlock was still holed up in his room, and John hadn't heard any signs of life from him all morning. He had just about decided to check on him when he heard the violin. It was similar to the melancholic melody from yesterday, but with more finality to it. John sat and listened in amazement, for the emotion behind it made it especially beautiful. To have those emotion so raw and out there. It sent shivers down John spine as he marveled at the talent of his best friend. Then the music grew frightful. It seemed to try and move him out of the flat in its severity. John became worried when the music didn't change after awhile.

What could possibly be putting him in such a foul mood? He had to have seen the note. John was baffled by this reaction. He thought Sherlock would come bounding out of his room like a blind man coming to see the sun. He had been anticipating the look of pure joy, that rare smile that was generally reserved just for John. He decided to take matters into his own hands, instead of relying on the erratic man. He walked over to Sherlock's door and pounded on it.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright in there? I think we need to talk!" John asked. The only response he got was the increasingly loud wail of the violin. John knocked louder and shouted a few more times, but to no avail.

I guess he doesn't want to talk then John let out an exasperated sigh that was lost in the screech of the impossibly loud violin. John attempted to sit and wait, but the noise grated on his nerves, and finally he couldn't take it any more. John marched off to his room to get ready for work, deciding that even if there were three hours till his shift started, they would be better spent on a walk in the park than here with that intrusive cacophony. He slammed his door on the way out, filling the flat with an air of finality.

The slamming of the door snapped Sherlock out of his musical coma. Cautiously, he unlocked his door and peeked out into the flat. Seeing it empty, Sherlock repacked his violin, grabbed the suitcase, and wheeled out into the kitchen. He left it there as he dashed up the steps to John's room. Once there, he rooted through John's desk drawer until he found a service picture of his army doctor. He closed the drawers and stared at the picture. John looked so much younger. His face wasn't aged by the war or Sherlock's "death". It put a smile on Sherlock's face to see that easy smile on John's face that usually popped up when Sherlock did something unusually tender or endearing. Sherlock loved that popped the picture into his wallet, then grabbed a piece of paper and pencil. He thought for a second about what exactly to write, making sure he picked the best words for this final goodbye.

My Dear John,

I have decided to leave, as living together as flatmates now is impossible. I love you, and cannot change that. Since you do not return this affection, I will go. I won't force anything on you. I just want you to know that even though this rejection hurts, I could never hate you.

Always with love, Sherlock

Sherlock walked dejectedly back downstairs back to his room. He fetched the note of the floor and stared at it.

Funny how one little 'x' can change everything so drastically. Sherlock sighed and walked into the kitchen. He left his note to John on the counter and grabbed his suitcase.

All of a sudden, a loud crack emanated from the downstairs door. Sherlock spun on his heel to face the door, confused at the sound of at least four boots racing up the stairs. He prepared himself to fend off the unwelcome visitors, as he was sure they were hostile.

Just before the door burst open, the sound of tinkling glass and a high pitched whistle reached Sherlock's ears. Just about anyone else would have missed the whistling noise, but he knew just what it was. However, he could do nothing to dodge the tranquillizer dart that promptly buried itself in his arm. The room immediately began to spin.

Two men rushed at Sherlock from the door, satisfied to see the dart taking effect quickly. Sherlock did his best to keep above the murkiness that was taking over his mind, but the tranquillizer proved to be powerful and quick. He dropped his original note note to John as he began to loose function of his extremities. As it drifted gracefully down, it abruptly twirled over, allowing Sherlock a glimpse of the back. He gave a small start when he saw writing on the backside that wasn't his.

There's more to the note?! Sherlock desperately tried to read those words, but was currently being yanked in the opposite direction by the two goons. He struggled determinedly towards the note, attempting to maneuver his drug addled self into a position where he could read the note. Finally he managed to break free of his captors just loge enough to read it.

I LOVE you!

What? Why did he mark the no? Sherlock struggled to understand through the fog that was shrouding his brain. He said he didn't like me...didn't LIKE me! Ugh Idiot! He doesn't like me, he LOVES me! A warm feeling spread through his body as joy overtook him. He felt as if he were flying...possibly because the nearest attacker had scooped him up!

Frantically, Sherlock thought for a way to alert someone to the events that were happening. He flailed around as much as possible, trying to leave as much evidence of a scuffle as possible. He made sure to know the dart to the floor as well, where hopefully, John would find it. That bloody note may ruin my plan! If he doesn't connect the dart and disarray with this more sinister event, I may be out of luck. Sherlock's last coherent thoughts were of John, and how he hoped that maybe, just maybe John would be able to sort this all out.


	13. Meltdown

John was having a bad shift at the surgery. A man had come in, and John hadn't been able to help him. His symptoms resembled the symptoms of the flu, but there was a lack thereof certain other symptoms that refuted that diagnosis. He had been able to touch his chin to his chest, so it wasn't meningitis, but there had been a suspicious lack of a runny nose. The poor man seemed to be in such bad condition, but John couldn't figure out for the life of him why. It upset John deeply. He ended up prescribing some general anti-biotics, as the man looked like death warmed over, and let him leave.

After he left, John was consumed by memories of his days in Afghanistan. The faces of soldiers he hadn't been able to save rushed past his eyes in a morbid parade. His shoulder and leg throbbed painfully, and his knees started to tremble. As he sank to the ground, John was overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness and failure. He couldn't help people, he was too stupid. Sherlock would have been able to deduce everything about this man, would have known what was plaguing him. But he was John Watson, a broken ex-army doctor who couldn't diagnose a simple patient. He didn't deserve to live. Those men in Afghanistan, they deserved to be here now. They had family, people who loved them. Who did John have? He desperately tried to conceal his light sobbing.

To his utter embarrassment, it was Mary who found him this way. He brightened momentarily, as he remembered the note Sherlock had left him. Maybe he did have someone to live for. Maybe someone did love him. But the lightness was doused by the realization that he would have to explain this all to Mary. Just last night he had been flirting with her, but tonight, he had Sherlock. Or, he rather hoped he had Sherlock. He hadn't actually discussed things with him yet, as he had locked himself away in his room. He wasn't sure where they currently stood. John was sure, however, that he would now fight for a relationship with Sherlock. How was he going to explain this all to Mary, without hurting her feelings?

"John? John are you okay?" Mary asked as she rushed across to room to where John was kneeling on the floor.

"I…I couldn't…help him" John finally mumbled. "That man is suffering, and will continue to suffer because I can't pull myself together. I should be able to help. I've been trained to help him! But all I could bloody do was give him some medicine that may or may not help."

"John, you can't help them all! It's sweet that you want to, but you're just setting yourself up for disappointment. Nobody, much less a doctor has a 100% success rate! Surely your time in the army taught you that." Mary said patiently, hands placed comfortingly on John's shoulders. She scrutinized his face, trying to see if his face would offer any explanation as to the onset of this craziness. His countenance held a tortured expression. However, there was something else behind that. Something different that she hadn't seen the last few times she had talked to him. Looking past the pain that currently dominated his demeanor, Mary saw the expressions that she had come to associate with love. It was the dullness she had seen often in her own mother's eyes when her dad would go away on business trips. It was the glint around the edges of his eyes that showed part of his brain was devoted to another, something Mary had noticed in the eyes of the brides and grooms of the weddings she attended. It was the way his body seemed relaxed, even in its tensed state, that resembled the posture of her married friends. John Watson was in love with someone, but it sure as hell was not herself. If it was Mary, his muscles wouldn't tense up under his hands the way they were now.

"Who's the lucky girl, John?" Mary asked quietly. Ever since she was a little girl, she had eagerly awaited her Prince Charming. As she got older, and more interested in science, she had familiarized her self with the bodily quirks of love. She had carefully observed, so that when her Prince Charming galloped up on his white horse, she would know. As the years went on, she inadvertently chose a career over relationships, telling herself that Prince Charming was still on his way, that he just got delayed fighting off some unworthy adversaries who would try to take her away from him. Of course, Mary wasn't silly about it. She didn't need to be a damsel in distress; she didn't want to be a silly, weak girl. She just wanted some one to love. She had thought that perhaps John...but no. He was already taken. It seemed to Mary that all the best princes were.

John's head snapped up at the words. How had she known? He was utterly bewildered that she knew, or at least was rather close, when he himself wasn't sure. He was used to Sherlock doing it, but Mary? Was everyone smarter than him?

"Ho-How do you mean?" John stammered.

"You've got that special glint in your eye, John. You're in love." May said simply, the last few words taking on a defeated tone.

"I'm sorry." John whispered sheepishly, "It's just- I've been harboring these feelings for a while now apparently, unbeknownst to myself. I couldn't face them before, but last night I was forced to realize that I've been dating to cover them up, and that none of those relationships could have ever worked because-" He paused a moment, considering the gravity of what he was about to confess,"I am in love. With my flat mate, Sherlock Holmes. Who is a bloke." He cast his eyes down at this last revelation, afraid to meet Mary's eyes. After all, hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn.

Mary squirmed at the revelation, an internal battle taking place as she tried to come to terms with what she had just heard, and its implications. She seemed to deflate slightly. John looked back up, attempting to meet her eyes, but she was looking down.

"I'm sorry, Mary. I never meant to hurt you." John said as he put his hands on her shoulders. They stayed like that for a minute before Mary leaned in and encircled his torso with her arms.

"Never apologize for love," she said,"and it's fine. It's all fine." John breathed a sigh of relief, and then chuckled at her familiar words. They were the same words he had spoken to Sherlock that first night at Angelo's. Mary pulled away to shoot him a questioning smile, but did not inquire further. then she joked "Just promise me we can still be friends. I've always wanted a gay friend! I hear they are the absolute best to take shopping!"

John giggled and retorted "Deal, but have you seen my wardrobe lately? Go shopping with me, and the only thing you're getting is a load of jumpers!" Mary clutched her face in faux horror, and then they both descended into a fit of giggles. When they finally regained their composures, John pulled Mary into a tight hug.

"Thank You, Mary. For everything." John said. Mary pulled back and smiled.

"Sure," she said, "Now tell me about this, Sherlock Holmes." John gawked at her.

"The Sherlock Holmes. The Reichenbach Hero. The one in the deerstalker. The internet sensation. You don't know of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes?" John said dumbfounded.

"I know that stuff, but those are just the public side of Sherlock, the impersonal, unflattering side. I want to hear about the real Sherlock. Your Sherlock." Mary explained. John beamed at her.

"Well, he's brilliant, for one. He's crazy, but that's part of what I love. He's just...so alive. The papers made him out to be this cold, unfeeling, icy man who only cared about solving a nice murder. Hell, that's the side most people see. They're blinded by preconceived notions and jealousy. Sherlock made me feel alive when I cam back from... from the war. Before him, I was in a constant battle with myself over whether or not to commit suicide. I spent everyday thinking about how easy it would be to just end it all, and not have to worry about money, or my limp, or my alcoholic sister who walked out on her wife. Then I met Sherlock, and I had excitement. I had a partner to look after. I had a purpose. He helped easy my money problems, devised a plan to show me that my limp wasn't near as bad as I thought, and made it so I wouldn't have to depend on my sister. Sure he gets on my nerves and can be a right git. But he's my git. He pieced me back together when I was broken, and I can never thank him enough for that. He cared enough to forge a friendship with me of all people, and me alone. But most importantly, he makes an effort for me. He doesn't let anyone change him, but he changed for me. Plus he's bloody gorgeous and has a nice arse." John concluded his monologue with a chuckle and a grin. Mary couldn't help but smile all the way through his explanation. At his last sentence, she smacked him playfully on the arm, and then stood up.

"Come on, up you go," she said as she reached an arm down to help him up, "you better finish your shift so you can go back to your boyfriend!" She giggled at the last word. John waved as she left his office, then sat down and prepared for his next patient. The bad memories from earlier were completely forgotten. They had been replaced with thoughts of Sherlock and of shopping trips with Mary. The latter caused him to giggle more.

By the time the end of his shift rolled around, John was exhausted. The breakdown from before had been more draining than John realized, and he hadn't slept that well the night before. So John splurged and took a cab home. John much preferred walking back to the flat, as it saved money and, if traffic was really bad, time. John tried to avoid taking cabs as much as possible. He usually only took them when he was with Sherlock.

Sherlock. John groaned as he realized that he would most likely need to stay up so they could have a conversation about their-ugh-feelings. Perhaps a cuppa will do the trick John pondered. It took a great deal of will power to fight the sleepiness that the soft, warm interior or the cab, combined with the emotional and mental fatigue, was inducing. He couldn't fall asleep yet. He really needed to talk to Sherlock. John hoped he would be able to coax the fickle man out of his room. If he could stay awake, then, if he was lucky, John might end up in Sherlock's arms tonight. It was a pleasing thought.

As the cab pulled up to 221 Baker Street, John noticed the door was slightly ajar. Alarmed, he jumped out of the cab and tossed the driver what he was sure was too much money, and rushed to the door.

" Mrs. Hudson? Sherlock?" John yelled. When he received no answer, he continued to the steps, and started the seventeen step dash. It occurred to him as he was climbing that the elderly lady was away at some family member's house until tomorrow afternoon, and therefore, should not answer his call. Sherlock, however, should be up in the flat, and therefore should acknowledge John's call. The fact that he didn't worried John. He reached to his lower back before mentally cursing at his own stupidity for having left his sidearm in his room in the upstairs of the flat. He prepared himself for what could lay on the other side of the door. John barreled through and immediately ducked and rolled to behind the closest couch. He cautiously peeked out from behind the couch, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, aside from a mess near the entrance to the kitchen. Coiled tight like a spring and ready to strike, John crept out from behind the couch and maneuvered towards his room. He made his way up the stairs, burst through the door of his room and grabbed his fire arm. He checked all through his room for signs of invaders. When he was satisfied that his room was untouched, he made his way down the stairs to Sherlock's room.

He cleared Sherlock's room using his military training to check for intruders who may still have been in the flat. He found Sherlock's room mostly empty. Most of his clothes, his portable science equipment, and even his violin were all gone. Even the skull, which Sherlock had moved into his room recently was mysteriously absent. A bolt of trepidation shot through John. What was going on? Nothing of value had been taken, so a robbery was unlikely.

"Sherlock?!" John called again, praying to whatever Supreme Being or Divine Power that was listening that Sherlock was somewhere close, safe from whatever malevolence had invaded their flat. John quickly cleared the rest of the flat, but found nobody. He ended in the kitchen, wondering about the mess and the few pieces of broken glass from a broken pane from a nearby window. That is no doubt the product of a Sherlock experiment John assured himself. He sank into his normal seat at the kitchen table. He hung his head in his hands in frustration. The detective was nowhere to be found. Maybe Lestrade had called him away on a longer, overnight case, one in which Sherlock figured he would need his violin. But surely, if that were the case, Sherlock would have sent him a text? John checked his phone. Nothing.

John decided to shoot Lestrade a quick text.

Greg, did you send Sherlock on some overnight case? JW

As he slipped his phone back into his pocket, he saw a note on the table. He sighed as he picked it up. John was getting slightly annoyed at all this secrecy. He unfolded it and read the familiar script.

My Dear John,

I have decided to leave, as living together as flatmates now is impossible. I love you, and cannot change that. Since you do not return this affection, I will go. I won't force anything on you. I just want you to know that even though this rejection hurts, I could never hate you.

Always with love, Sherlock

John felt his gut wrench. For the second time that night, his knees gave out beneath him. This time, however, he wasn't strong enough to keep him at a genuflection. He fell down to the floor and curled up into a feotal position, as if he could curl up tight enough to keep his insides from gushing out.

Since you do not return this affection, I will go.

How could the brilliant deductor not see that John was madly in love with him? "B-but Sherlock," it came out no louder than a whisper, "I love you, Sherlock." It was the first time he had said those words altogether. It felt good to get out, but did not help his current predicament. Pain swept through him as he realized that Sherlock was gone. It was obvious, the misunderstanding. Sherlock had only looked at the front of his note, and saw the no. He then was pained as John now was, packed and left. In his anger, he must have made a mess and forgotten to shut the doors properly. This was all John's fault. He had been trying to be funny, or cute, or hell John doesn't even know what, and he had gone and ruined it all.

John curled up tighter, hoping that if he stayed this way, then maybe, just maybe, he could keep his heart from being ripped out.


	14. A New Perspective

A ringing noise interrupted Mycroft's light slumber. He rolled over gently, not wanting to wake the other occupant of his bed.

"Hello?" He answered, using a sleepy voice to hopefully make the other party feel guilt at phoning at such an ungodly hour. He didn't actually care, but he didn't want his partner woken up. He smiled to himself. Sentiment. My God, Mycroft Holmes. You are feeling sentiment.

"My-Mycroft" a broken voice sobbed. Oh God.

Mycroft got up off the bed and grabbed his dressing robe as he said "John? What happened? Is Sherlock okay?"

The elder Holmes brother knew that if John was calling him at this time in the morning, something bad must have happened, and had indubitably involved his younger brother. He quickly slipped his robe on and sat on the couch. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself as he waited for John to pull himself together enough to answer without sobbing.

"I've hurt him, Mycroft," John said in a matter-o-fact tone "For once, the bloody genius failed to see what was in front of him, and now he's gone, and it's my fault. I tried being smart, and I ruined everything!" Mycroft froze. Sherlock was gone? But he had just returned. He had come to Mycroft first, giving his brother a chance to explain his involvement with Moriarty. Sherlock had heard him out, and had, uncharacteristically, said that he forgave him. Mycroft had been utterly amazed. Not that his brother was alive. No, he always knew that Sherlock was too smart to go out like that. Sherlock would be alive as long as he had time to think. No regular criminal would surprise him enough to kill him. Moriarty was no regular criminal, not by any means. But Sherlock understood him and knew his intentions well before hand. He would have planned for many different scenarios.

No, Mycroft Holmes was amazed by the fact that his little brother had extended such a kind gesture to Mycroft. Mycroft genuinely cared for his brother. He had always been left in charge of Sherlock while their parents were off on business and pleasure trips, and had seen the sides of Sherlock no one, save perhaps John, got to see. His little brother could be rather endearing if one could get back the prickly exterior.

Sherlock had left soon after, exclaiming that he had to see His John. It had been rather late, and Mycroft had been concerned about the reception Sherlock would get. The doctor would probably not believe him, or would be overly frustrated with him. Mycroft had dismissed the idea of meddling, knowing that Sherlock would be adverse to the idea. Mycroft owed him, after all. Why would Sherlock leave? He had been so excited to see his John.

Oh.

The realization about what must have happened washed over Mycroft as he put Sherlock's action together with John's words. It was something he had been expecting to happen for awhile now, but had never imagined things could go this horribly awry.

"John, I need you to tell me exactly what happened." Mycroft demanded. He was going to have to be smart about this. Tonight was the biggest danger night Sherlock had ever faced, and he would be facing it alone. How could the ex-army doctor, a man who had thus far shown he would do just about anything for Sherlock, who had proved that he cared for Sherlock, have hurt his brother enough to make Sherlock leave? Usually it was the other way around.

Sherlock had to be found. Mycroft didn't want to imagine the alternatives, as they were all unsavory. He listened to John's retelling of what had transpired in the flat since Sherlock had returned home. He listened for anything that might give him a clue as to how to find his brother, but heard nothing. John was nearly in tears by the time he had finished recounting the story.

"John," Mycroft said in as soothing a voice as he could muster, acutely aware of a presence behind him "We are going to find Sherlock, and we are going to bring him home safe."

"Th-thanks, Mycroft." John said, sniffling.

"And John," Mycroft said quickly, having a sudden urge to comfort the man further "he- Sherlock, he really loves you, you know. He was so eager to see you again. Just know that John."

Mycroft could almost hear the smile in John's parting words, and Mycroft smiled.

"Look at you, bein' so emotional, "a deep voice rumbled in his ear as two arms wrapped around him from behind. Mycroft ran his hand up to his lovers cheek as the lips that had been at his ear kissed his neck.

"Sherlock's gone. Left. Ran away. It would seem that he misinterpreted a message from the good doctor, and left, heartbroken." Mycroft explained " I'm concerned, Greg. Tonight, Sherlock is in great danger from himself. If he were to turn back to the life he lived before, tonight would be the night. I've said that before, but tonight is different. He doesn't have anyone there to help him through it tonight."

"What happened?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft could hear the frown in his voice. Mycroft told him everything. As Mycroft was explaining, Lestrade shifted around him so that he was sitting on Mycroft's lap, legs straddling the British government's hips.

"Shit," Lestrade sighed "I get now why you Holmeses aren't fond of emotions." The two chuckled quietly in the dark.

"We always knew that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, and this episode just affirms it.-But," Mycroft said, quickly when he saw the Detective Inspector's face fall "I wouldn't stop feeling it now for anything. For while I may be losing, I'm losing with you. The risk is worth it."

"Mycroft Holmes," Lestrade said after a moment, shaking his head slightly, in amazement, before leaning forward to gently rest his forehead on Mycroft's "That is the most bloody romantic thing anyone has ever said, and you know what else-" He paused for a moment and licked his lips "I love you. I bloody love you."

Mycroft felt his heart swell. Greg loves me. Love. Me. Mycroft captured Greg's lips with his, happy that the Detective Inspector had been brave enough to ask him out in the first place, and thankful that he hadn't let his no-nonsense policy get in the way. It had happened a few weeks after the fall. Apparently, Mycroft had been rather depressed looking, because Greg had come over to him one day while he was at a crime scene to comfort him. Lestrade had said that he understood, that he missed the "bloody git" too. He had then hesitantly said that if Mycroft wanted, he could come over later to his house and talk. Mycroft hadn't realized that Greg meant a date at first. He simply felt the overwhelming urge to talk about Sherlock to someone. After John had confronted him, Mycroft had felt horribly guilty about giving Moriarty all the information. He couldn't talk to John about this, as John wanted nothing to do with him anymore. So he had gone to Greg's. Turns out the two got along very well, and it had been the beginning of something Mycroft had never been interested in. A relationship. He, like his little brother, had never seen the point in relationships, preferring instead to focus on his works. Business relationships he understood, but the whole romantic relationship was a new concept to him. But Greg had convinced him that it would be worth it. And it was.

"Gregory Lestrade," Mycroft gasped as lips moved down his neck "I love you, too. I never thought I would say this to anyone, but I am completely in love with you." Lestrade made a happy noise in the back of his throat, then brought his lips back to Mycroft's they shared one more deep kiss before Lestrade leaned back and said "Good. Bloody good. Now that tha's established, lets find your brother."

The two got up and went quickly to get changed. While Lestrade was in the bathroom, Mycroft called his assistant, who was commonly referred to as Anthea.

"I need all the security footage from Baker Street and 221B for the past two days. As quickly as possible. Also have someone begin scanning the CCTV's for any sign of Sherlock." Mycroft said urgently "Anything that might give a clue as to where Sherlock is now, I want it." Mycroft snapped the phone shut after a quick "yes sir" from Anthea. Greg came out of the bathroom and got his shoes on. The two linked hands and headed to the garage. Mycroft snapped at the on duty driver to hurry up and get to 221 B Baker Street as the two clamored into the car. They had been about ten minutes into the fifteen minute drive when Anthea called back.

"Sir, it would appear that several men broke into your brother's flat earlier tonight while his flatmate was at work, and kidnapped him. It seemed that he had been about to leave with a suitcase, but then something caused him to pause. When the men cam in, he tried to fight, but quickly flagged. It would appear that he was somehow drugged, as when they carried him and the suitcase out, he was unconscious despite neither of them hitting him. There is some kind of note on the kitchen table that they read as well."

"Very well Anthea, see if you can identify the men, or at very least the car they must have drove. Try and find out where they have taken him. " Mycroft stayed as calm as he possibly could with these new developments. When he snapped the phone shut, he turned to Lestrade, explained, then promptly buried his face in his boyfriend's chest. Mycroft Holmes never cried. But he was sorely tempted to now.


	15. Legacy

John slowly closed the phone after Mycroft hung up. He hated that he'd had to call up the other Holmes brother, especially when John still felt rather betrayed by his careless exchange of information with Moriarty. But he also knew that Mycroft would have the best chances of finding Sherlock, and John desperately wanted to find him. He knew if he could just find him, just explain what had happened...

John groaned as he sat up. Lying on the ground would be of no use to anyone. He planted his hands on either side of his body, preparing to shirt around to a position where he could comfortably stand up. As he placed his right hand, he felt a sharp pinch in his palm. He muttered an explicative, removed his hand, and immediately started searching for the source of the discomfort.

His expression shifted from one of annoyance to one of surprise as he located the source. He picked up the small dart and examined it closely. A dart? Curious. Sherlock doesn't own any dart guns or darts.

John immediately stood up and glanced around, searching for an explanation as to why and how this dart came to be resting upon the floor of the flat. He tried to reason it out like Sherlock would have, but a small,whistling noise broke his concentration. There was no kettle on, so what else could be the source of a whistling noise? It was similar to the noise produced when one blows over the top of a bottle.

As John was scanning the room, he happened to glance out the window, and noticed that it had gotten rather windy. At this observation, a new idea presented itself in John's mind. He walked over to the window, and once he got closer, noticed a hole in the bottom corner of the top window pane. He held the dart up to the hole, and...yes, a near perfect fit!

So something or someone shot a dart through our window...was it at Sherlock? John's heart sped at this thought and it's implications. Had Sherlock been...taken? His heart felt infinitely lighter as he realized what this might mean. Sherlock hadn't run from him. His heart nearly simultaneously dropped as he realized what else this meant. Some one had taken Sherlock, and likely was intending to hurt him. John's blood boiled at this thought. Who would have the audacity to take Sherlock Holmes from him? Who could even be clever enough to pull one over on Sherlock? John felt a pang of guilt as he realized that he had probably been distracted by his emotional plight. The one I bloody put him in. John shook this off best as he could and tried to focus. He had to find Sherlock, and find him fast. First he had to warn Mycroft. Mycroft! He would be a huge asset in this endeavor, with his near omniscience over London and his unending supply of resources.

John heard two sets of feet pound up the stairs. John raced to the door, guessing who would be at the door. He pulled it open to see Mycroft and Lestrade ascend the last few steps.

"Mycroft! Sherlock didn't leave he was kidnapped!" John yelled at the same time as Mycroft said "John, some men broke in and kidnapped Sherlock." They both stopped and gazed at each other in confusion. Mycroft quickly took charge and explained.

"I had my people check the CCTV footage, and we have the guys who did this on tape. Of course, you cannot tell much about them from the footage, but we have information on their car. We are currently patrolling the area, searching for the car. We are also scanning more footage, looking for them." John nodded and held up the dart he had found.

"I found this on the floor. There is a hole in the window that is roughly the size of the dart. I figured that some needed to incapacitate Sherlock, and for what other reason would they need to?" Mycroft nodded at John, a small smile breaking across his face.

"Good, John. I thinks it is obvious that my brother has been rubbing off on you. You observed and deducted." John smiled in spite of himself. He told himself to be nice to Mycroft, at least for the time being. He would have to let out his pissiness later, when finding Sherlock didn't depend on help from the British Government.

"Thanks. So how about we devise a plan. If I may suggest, Mycroft, you go wherever it is you work, assemble your team to watch the CCTVs and acquire other helpful information. Greg, you and I will go back to Scotland Yard and assemble as many of your people who are willing to help. If you can, offer them overtime or some other incentive. We need as many people gathering information and searching as possible." John asserted, demanding rather than suggesting. The other two men glanced at each other, then back at John. They nodded but didn't say anything.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Hop to it!" John insisted rather intensely. He felt a growing sense or urgency that was the driving force behind his insistence. He felt something nagging at the back of his mind. Who would be able to kidnap THE Sherlock Holmes? John felt as if there was only one answer to that question, but... no. he couldn't be right. It was impossible.

Just as the men roused into action, John's phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. Private Number. He threw a look at Mycroft to silence them, then flicked the phone open and put it on speaker phone.

"Hullo?" John said after a moment.

A cold voice filled the room. "Hello, John Watson. And Mycroft Holmes. And Detective Inspector Lestrade." The voice sounded very smug, and a small giggle was heard in the background.

"Okay, you have our attention," John said, assuming that had been the purpose the caller had for revealing that he knew the information "Who are you, and what do you want?"

"Ooo, John you sound so serious. Something...missing?" The voice teased. The giggle was louder this time, and it sounded strangely familiar. Frighteningly familiar.

"Answer the question, or I will hang up!" John snapped. Fear was flooding his mind. That giggle couldn't be real. The person who emitted it was dead. He had to be dead. But then again, Sherlock wasn't. Why was it so hard to believe that, if Sherlock had survived his plummet, Moriarty had been able to trick Sherlock into only thinking he shot himself? Could Moriarty really be alive.

"Snappy today aren't we? If you must know, I am Sebastian Moran, and I have your little detective." the voice identified as Moran paused, before gleefully adding "and if you want him back alive, you'll have to find him. See I have a delightful little game planned, and if you win, Sherlock will go free." John felt a surge of conviction. He had to win this. For Sherlock.

"Tell me more about this game. What are the rules? the stipulations?" John asked frantically, eager to get started to find Sherlock.

"Oh, I'm so glad you asked. Your little detective is currently located somewhere in the city of London. You have 90 minutes to find him. You may not leave you flat, other than to go to Sherlock's location, starting now, and you may not use anything other than what is currently in you flat to discover the location of Sherlock. You get one guess. If you are wrong, I will kill both of you." The voice started out gleeful, but dropped to an icy snarl on the last sentence.

John felt his heart drop. This was Sherlock's area of expertise. Not his. How could he do this? "Don't I get any clues?" John asked desperately.

"Oh, I suspect you'll be getting one soon. Your time starts as soon as Sherlock comes to. And if you want to find Sherlock in one piece, you will not use Scotland Yard or Mycroft Holmes's connections." Moran warned.

"Can you at least tell me why you are doing this?" John shouted, desperate for information.

"Simple. I am here to finish the work of a great man-"the voice turned angry now"-a man your Sherlock killed. I am doing this to avenge James Moriarty! I swear to you, John Watson. I will burn the heart out of both you and Sherlock Holmes." With that the other caller hung up.

John slowly closed the phone. He started trembling, then sank to the ground. He ran a hand through his hair. Did this mean that Moriarty was actually dead. It was a small comfort, seeing as there was someone else out there who seemed just as, if not more dangerous than the consulting criminal.

"I've gotta find Sherlock. I have ta decipher information and deduce impossible deductions, throw it all together and miraculously find out where Sherlock's been taken. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO BLOODY DO THAT!" John roared. Mycroft and Lestrade shared another secret look. Mycroft looked utterly clueless as to how to help, but Lestrade strode over and put an arm on John's shoulder.

"Hey," Lestrade said soothingly "We're here to, ya know. You don't haffta do this all on your own." John stared up at him, incredulous.

"Didn't you bloody hear him? You will not use Scotland-bloody-yard or Mycroft-bloody-Holmes's connections. You can't help otherwise he will MAIM Sherlock! Is that what you want, Greg!?" John said, approaching hysterics. This was far more stressful than any combat situation, as this was a strike near and dear to his heart. He remembered the words he had uttered last time a strike had landed this close to his heart. Please God let me live.

Please God, let him live.

"John," Lestrade said calmly "I am not Scotland Yard, and surely Mycroft himself is not considered among Mycroft's connections. We can and will help you." John felt his heart warm as some confidence returned. Greg's words made sense. Maybe he wouldn't have to rely on his own observations. Mycroft was just as smart as Sherlock. He could be a great help. He had a chance.

John looked up and smiled.

"Let's win this bloody game and get my detective back."


	16. The Game Is On

Sherlock awoke with a pounding headache. His vision blurred when he tried to sit up, or any time he moved in general. He became aware or a sharp ringing that pierced the quietness around him. Eager to stop the shrieking noise that was hell on his currently sensitive ears, he quickly rooted around for the phone. He answered it with a slurred "Hello?"

"Hello Sherlock. Miss me?" a voice that Sherlock was all too familiar with sung.

"Moriarty. What are the conditions of the game?" Sherlock asked quickly, trying to throw off the consulting criminal with his deduction.

"Oh, Sherlock. Quick as ever. So eager to prove your abilities. Compensating for a lack of self-confidence, are we?" the voice with a funny Irish-lilt chided.

"Just. Tell. Me" Sherlock hissed.

"Fine. Fine. Listen close, this is a fun one. Little Johnny has ninety minutes, starting as soon as this call ends, to locate you. If he does, then you will get to leave. BUT-"Moriarty giggled in delight " when he comes, my little buddy, Sebastian, here will kill him. Snipe him right in the head."

"John, no!" Sherlock gasped.

"And the best part is, you can't tell him!" Moriarty was outright laughing now. This statement piqued Sherlock's curiosity. Of course, he had no way to communicated with John, unless...

He patted his pockets, confused when he pulled his cellphone out of its usual hiding place in his right hand pocket.

"Goodbye, Sherly. And remember, if you attempt to tell John of his impending doom, or try to escape the building without MY PERMISSION!-I will kill Doctor John Hamish Watson." With that, the connection went dead. Sherlock glanced down at the phone in his hand. It was a basic prepaid phone with 10 minutes left on it. He then glanced down at his own phone and groaned. It was out of service. Just this one time, Sherlock let and explicative slip from his lips.

"Bloody Hell" he moaned. It felt good to let some stress go like that. His senses had dulled back to the comfortable, normal range, which was admittedly still sharper than most people's. He got up and surveyed his surroundings. He was in an old building. A grand old concert hall. He quickly compiled a list of older concert halls in London. He then narrowed it down based on the color scheme and architectural features. He had a small list, but could not be sure of where he was.

He sighed as he pondered what to do about John. There was no way he could allow John to get close to finding him. He would, once again, sacrifice himself for his John. He didn't even have to think about it. It was a given. He would do absolutely anything for John. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to hear John's soothing voice. Frankly, he was scared. He didn't want to die, but he was going to have to. His John had to stay safe.

Suddenly he remembered the phone in his hand. He could keep John safe. He could feed him false information. He would have to be careful about it, as John could tell when he was lying, most of the time. He felt a heavy weight on his chest. He would never get to see John again. He would never get to cuddle with him, or kiss him. Wouldn't get to argue and make up. He wouldn't be allowed to grow old with John.

Sherlock felt a tear roll down his cheek as this reality sunk in. Before, with the fall, he had planned, he knew he could survive. He had known he could return and see John again. But he also hadn't had confirmation that John liked him back. He had simply been crushing, admittedly hard, on John. But this time was so much harder. He knew now his feelings were reciprocated. He knew now that if he could get out of this, he could have all those things. God he wanted them bad. There had o be a way. If there was, Sherlock Holmes would find it.

He pulled out the disposable phone and dialed John's number. He decided to inspect the building, looking for a way to get around Moriarty's threats. When John answered, Sherlock barley managed to croak out "John."

"Sherlock? Oh God, Lestrade, Mycroft its Sherlock!" John cheered " Sherlock, are you okay? Are you hurt? Is that bastard Moran there with you? Do you know where you are? Can you gives us help so we can come get you?"

Sherlock chuckled at his flatmates quickfire questions.

"John, I'm okay," he lied; he may have been physically okay, but emotionally he was hurting so bad "No, Moran is not here. I know I'm in some older concert hall, and while appreciate your rush, since this disposable phone only has ten minutes on it, take a second and breathe." Sherlock tried to sound as calm as possible, but the sound of John voice so concerned over him was doing strange things to him. He felt a lump in his throat that made it difficult to keep his voice normal.

"What? Oh, never mind. Sherlock, I swear to God that I will find you and get you out of there alive. I'm coming for you Sherlock. I will find you. For now, I'm going to go and see if I can narrow down your location. I'll call back when I have a smaller list. Or if you think of something that could help, call. But don't waste minutes, in case we really need them." Sherlock wanted to yell at him to not bother. To please not try and find him. Sherlock could not live if John died. The doctors presence in his life had become a necessary one. Who else could put up with him? Who else could make him feel like the luckiest guy on Earth when everyone else seemed out to get him? Who else would satisfy his need for an audience, his need for approval? Even if another person existed who would do all of this for Sherlock for any sort of long-term arrangement, Sherlock didn't want anyone else. He just wanted his John.

"Th-ank you, John" He couldn't stop his voice from cracking or the tears from welling in his eyes. He had to be strong to keep John happy as long as possible. He was going to have to make this as easy on John as possible. When a sociopath discovers that he is irrevocably in love, it is a surprise. But it also makes that other person that much more amazing, the relationship that much more intense. Sociopaths are not supposed to feel, especially not love and remorse. But John made Sherlock feel both of those. John made Sherlock feel human.

"Sherlock?" John said softly, obviously hearing something amiss in Sherlock's voice; he dismissed his question in favor saying "Sherlock, I... I lo- I'll be there soon." Then the line went dead.

Sherlock checked to see if the disposable phone had text. When he found that it did, he typed up a message to send to John. He saved it to drafts, so then when the time came, he could just press send. He wiped the tears of his face. He resigned himself to his fate, but at the same time, kept scanning his brain for possible ways out. That was the good thing about Sherlock's brain. He could think many different things at once, then delete the extraneous strands when he was done.

A thought crossed his mind, and he pulled out his phone. Just because his own phone didn't have service didn't mean it didn't have other functions. He plopped down onto the floor as he went to the photo albums. He clicked on one labeled 'mine', then quickly typed in 'MHqu33nof3ngland'. He smiled to himself at his choice in password. It was very secure, with the capital letters and numbers, and it was bloody brilliant. Mycroft Holmes, Queen of England, indeed. He sniggered, remembering the first time John had dubbed his brother that. It had been after the left Buckingham Palace for that case he met The Woman on. Sherlock had made a remark about how regal Mycroft pretended to be, and John had sniggered and said "yeah, its like he thinks he's the Queen of England." They had both nearly died in a fit of laughter.

The file unlocked. He scrolled through the pictures in the file. They were all of John. John laughing. John swearing. John talking. John smiling. He scrolled to his favorite picture. It was one he had secretly taken it while John was in full on Doctor mode. They had been passing Regent's Park, walking back to the flat after a case when a boy on a skateboard had fallen over something, and landed hard on his wrist.

John had immediately rushed over to the boy, stopped him crying, and payed for a cab to take him to the hospital. Sherlock had snuck a picture of John with one hand comfortingly on the boys shoulder, crouched down to be at eye level with the boy. John looked so kind, so tender. Yet at the same time, he had a rigid air of calm and cool about him that sharply contrasted the boy's panic. In that moment, John looked so perfect. That picture held everything that Sherlock loved about John.

Tears threatened to well up again. He wanted his John.


	17. A Surprise

John closed the phone and closed his eyes, trying to physically impede the tears that were threatening to spill over. John had to be strong for Sherlock now, but all he could think about as he desperately tried to swallow the lump that was blocking his throat was the crack in the other man's voice when he had thanked John. That and the fear that would have gone unnoticed to someone who wasn't as well attuned to the detective as John was.

"Lestrade!"John snapped as he quickly spun to face the Detective Inspector "I need a list of all the opera houses in London, quickly!" Lestrade gave an understanding nod and quickly booted up the nearest laptop.

"Mycroft, I'll need you to start thinking about how we could get Sherlock out safely while skill getting Moran. I want the bastard dead, yeah?" John explained, his voice dropping a few degrees as he said the last words. Mycroft simply nodded and sat down on the couch. He steepled his hands under his chin in way that was reminiscent of a certain consulting detective.

What else will I need? John thought. It hit him that he would need to know how to get to wherever the place was when the time came, and decided it would be more prudent to go ahead and get the map out now and have it ready. He went over to the book case and found the book of maps of London and the surrounding area. As he pulled it down, a few rose petals fluttered out with it, and genteelly drifted to the ground.

"What the...?" John said as he leaned over to pick them up. They were still fairly fresh. John peered into the spot on the bookshelf where the book of maps used to be. There, behind the books on that section of the shelf, laid a small bouquet of roses. A dozen to be precise. John carefully reached in and extracted them from behind the books. The roses couldn't have been there long. Probably no longer than a few days. Nestled inside the roses was a small card. John pulled the card out to read.

"My John" It read simply.

It was written in a familiar scrawl. Something about the note unsettled John, but for the life of him, he couldn't place what.

"Take a look at this, guys." John said as he turned to face the duo once more. They both gave John a puzzled glance, so John explained further. "I just found them behind the books. They aren't very old, couldn't have been there longer than a few days. There's a note in Sherlock's handwriting that addresses them to me..."

Mycroft extended an arm towards John, indicating that he wished to see the roses. As John handed them over, a small frown creased Mycroft's face. He carefully scrutinized the roses, presumably trying to determine if it had indeed been his brother who procured them. Apparently, he found no incriminating evidence either for or against, and laid them on the kitchen table. He then picked up the card to give it a closer examination. His stiff demeanor relaxed and he gave a small, sad smile when he read the note. He placed the note on the table, and stayed turned around a moment longer. John saw him wipe something off his face before turning around.

When he was facing John once again, his face was hard with determination, and his eyes were bright, although a bit moist. "John, we are going to find him. I swear to you that we will find Sherlock, and make Moran pay for this." Mycroft said with conviction.

Lestrade smiled and stood up. He strode over to where Mycroft was standing. "Yeah, we got your back!" Greg said as he wound his arms around Mycroft's waist. He gave a quick squeeze, then looked up to the face of the British Government. They looked into each other's eyes and seemed to have a private, silent, conversation. John turned away, embarrassed. He strolled over to the laptop with the list on it. He scrolled through the list, groaning at it's length. He eliminated the newer ones. Sherlock definitely said an older hall, but that only narrows it down so much. Damn, I need more information. THINK!

"Alright guys,we know that he is somewhere IN London. We know that he is in a music hall, an older one. I don't know how much older, but I've eliminated the ones on the list that I know are new. Mycroft, as you have a position in the government, you would probably know better then me which are older. Could you order them in chronological order by year they were built?" John asked, desperate to do anything that could put them a step closer to finding Sherlock.

"Of course, John. I should be able to access a database from here with my credentials." Mycroft said as he nodded. He waited for John to move out of the chair, then plopped down into the seat and quickly started searching, fingers ablaze on the keyboard. John turned to Lestrade then, thinking of what else they could do to find Sherlock. A moment of panic flashed through his mind as he realized that he had no clue of how to do this. He wasn't a detective of any sorts. He was just a doctor. An ex-army doctor.

His moment passed as he realized that he had indeed executed many missions like this while in Afghanistan. This is just like a hostage rescue mission. I have a general, albeit city wide, idea of where he is, I'll have one shot to get him, and it's bound to be full of dangerous obstacles. Maybe I'm better suited for this than I thought. With this thought, John looked up at Greg and suggested "Lets check the map and note where the concert halls are. There are, what, twenty or so on the list?" A quick nod from Mycroft confirmed the validity of the statement. Mycroft printed the partially sorted list, and John quickly fetched it. He grabbed his box of Doctor Who post-it notes, and fished out his Dalek shaped tabs.

"Come on Greg, lets exterminate this game!" John giggled, unable to contain himself. He was feeling a bit giddy after his realization, and was, if at all possible, even more eager to find Sherlock.


	18. Roses

Sherlock was getting mighty bored. It had been roughly sixty minutes, and it had only taken him the first thirty to deduce exactly where he was. He was in Roseburg Hall. It was roughly twenty years old, used maybe once a year, and unbelievably dull. He had considered calling John, but wasn't totally sure he could contain himself if he tried to talk to his doctor right now. He had spent the last thirty searching for a violin. He figured he might do something he enjoyed with his last hour. It was hard for him to think like that. He had already survived so much. He had survived Moriarty once, but this time, Moriarty had something much more powerful. Before, he had the knowledge that John was his only friend, and the inkling that he and the blogger felt something more for each other. This time he had confirmation. He had proof. There was the note Moriarty's men had undoubtedly saw. There was the fact that Sherlock had even returned. There was Sherlock's last call. So much proof.

But Sherlock wouldn't have taken any of it back. He wouldn't exchange those moments for any thing, not even his exoneration from this trap he was currently in. Those moments, he would die for. He would rather die than take back the certainty that John loved him. It was selfish, but Sherlock could not, and would not give up John. Not for anything. He couldn't resist calling John any longer. He pulled out the phone desperate to hear John's voice. The phone still had eight minutes left on it. He dialed John's number with a shaking hand. It only rang twice. Sherlock smiled. His John was waiting for him.

"John" he said, pleased that his voice came out relatively even.

"Sherlock! Did you think of anything we could use?" John said, obviously pleased to get word from the detective. Sherlock frowned. He knew exactly where he was, but he didn't want John to know. Yet he would have to tell John something so as not to raise suspicion.

"Um, yeah. I have deduced that the building is no older than twenty five years, and no younger than fifteen years." There that would be something that Sherlock could deduce, yet not so specific as to give John too much information. He listened as John relayed the information to someone else in a delighted tone.

"Great Sherlock, that's bloody brilliant!" John ejaculated, "That helps narrow down our list considerably! We went from twenty something options to five!"

Damn "Great, John!" Sherlock put on a falsely cheerful voice. A thousand different options ran through his head. He could say any number of things to completely throw John off. But he couldn't bring himself to lie. Not to his John. Never to his John. Never again. Last time he had told his John a lie was when he had been atop that rooftop. The fall. That lie had caused such pain. He never wanted to inspire such pain in his John again, so he promised himself he would. Never. Lie. Again.

"Listen, Sherlock," John said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "Those roses on the bookshelf, I found them. They're lovely. Thanks." Sherlock could nearly hear the blush spread across John's cheeks. Sherlock hadn't left any roses. A flash of jealousy flashed through him. Some other man/woman/person was leaving HIS John roses. The Audacity...!

"What roses?" Sherlock snapped without thinking. The massive significance hit him as the words poured out of his mouth. Roseburg Hall. Ah Moriarty, you are clever. Sherlock thought, despite his utter horror at the clue John had no doubt received. He would have to break the promise he just made. Damn.

"You mean you didn't leave any roses...?" John asked, the pitch of his voice raising as he got to the end of the sentence.

"No! No I did leave roses, I just...forgot." Sherlock finished lamely. His vocabulary and way with words must be impeded by all the stress he was under. He had used two curse words in the past 3 minutes. Unacceptable.

"Sherlock..." John said uneasily "You never forget."

"Oh um, must be the stress of being kidnapped or something... but yes, I did leave you the roses. I was hoping I could give them to you when we...chatted." Sherlock said desperately. In reality, he had not considered ever getting John flowers unless it was a very special occasion, such as a birthday, or a date, or...other romantic firsts. John could hardly be blamed for not knowing this, as he had no data about a romantically involved Sherlock.

"Oh, right." John awkwardly said, "Well thanks. I really appreciate it. I do love flowers." Sherlock carefully filed that little tidbit away for further analysis.

"John," Sherlock breathed, "John, I just want you to know-If I never see you again-"

"NO!" John shouted, "No, Sherlock. Don't talk like that. Don't even think like that. I will figure this out. I will find you. We will be safe. I'm going to find this Moran bastard and kill him. I lo- I'll make us safe!" Sherlock's heart swelled with pride at these words, before it promptly sank. As much as he wanted to believe John, he really did, but John didn't have all the information. If it was just Sebastian Moran, Sherlock could have easily taken him down. But Moriarty was involved, and this time, Moriarty had a reputation to make good. Sherlock had beaten him once, no he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Sherlock wanted to cry, but couldn't. Not with John listening. He couldn't let John worry about him. There would be enough time for that...later.

"Okay, John. I look forward to seeing you here." Sherlock said, then promptly hung up. It was the hardest thing. to press that little red button. But he had to spare John as much pain as he could, which included not letting him see the hurt. The impossibility of the situation. Sherlock desperately wanted to see John, but he even more desperately didn't. Seeing John would mean death for John. And, Sherlock realized, death for me. He had no desire to live with out John anymore. If John died, so would he.

Was this Moriarty's plan all along, Sherlock mused. Did he always plan to use our feelings for each other against us? Sherlock sat down and looked at the text message he had typed up earlier. There were still three minutes left on the phone, more than enough time to send the text and perhaps even to call John one last time. As soon as this thought crossed his mind, it was all he wanted to do. He wanted John's voice telling him it was alright. He wanted to tell John that he loved him. He wanted it to be said before...before he couldn't say it anymore. He wanted John to know, before he ended up at his grave, his real one this time, wondering if Sherlock had actually loved him. So far, Sherlock had only written once, in an ill-conceived note nonetheless, that he loved John. That wasn't enough. He wanted to scream it from the rooftops, tell John a million times. He would settle for just one time, though, in light of the situation. He needed to tell John. He didn't want to die with one more regret.


	19. Revelation

John closed the phone and mentally cursed himself. He should have told Sherlock. He wanted to say it so badly. He wanted the words to be out there in the open for everyone to hear. Three simple words: I love you.

But he couldn't bring himself to say them in this way. It seemed to final to say them with so much distance between them. He wanted the first time to be special, not some rushed distanced thing over the phone. He wanted to see his detective's face when those words gushed forth from the well of emotion inside. He wanted to see the elation, feel the muscles of the other man's face contract, observe the dilation of those pupils, hear the quickening of his best mate's pulse.

He wanted it all so much.

John sucked in his breath, tensed up his shoulders, and squeezed his eyes shut. All the tension in his body bunched up in his head and hands. He held it there for a second before blew out his breath and threw his arms down gently, releasing all the tension, and letting him get a better grip over the emotions that threatened to take him over. He would need to be in full possession of his faculties if he was going to retrieve Sherlock. The detective had done the easy part by eliminating all but a few of the remaining locations, but now the hard work of finding the exact one was too begin.

"Have you been able to eliminate any of the five?" John turned and asked Mycroft, who was perched on the couch with John's laptop in his lap.

"I've eliminated all but two, based on current construction work, frequency of use, and other factors I was able to deduce from your conversation with my dear brother." Mycroft drawled. John blinked in surprise. He forgot how alike the two brothers were, despite vehement protest from both parties to the contrary.

"Fantastic. Names?" John asked as he strode over to where Lestrade was at the kitchen table, the map spread out before him.

"Roseburg Hall and Smaug Auditorium." Mycroft replied as he sat the laptop down and strode over to the other two men. He pointed out their locations on the map.

"Alright. What else-"John was cut off by the ringing of his phone. He excitedly pulled it out and answered without checking the caller ID.

"Sherlock, good news! We've narrowed it down to two places! We're so close-"

"Ah, how touchingly loyal the pet is to its master. It warms my heart so to see it. Not that I have one. My Sebby took it long ago, and kept it safe for me, unlike you. I know exactly where your heart is and how exactly to hurt it. I warned Sherly I would burn the heart out of him. The added benefit is hurting you. You see, poor little Sherly is too weak to stand up against me. He always did detest sentiment. Rightly so, as it has done nothing but drop him down to your level. The level of the angels." Sneered a very different voice than the one John was expecting. John paled at the voice, but surprisingly, found the courage to speak up once the spider started venomously attacking John's flatmate (was that really the right word?)

"Listen here, you bastard, Sherlock and I, we make each other stronger. We will beat this little game of yours. I will find Sherlock, and I. Will. Kill. You." John threatened, doing his best to sound intimidating. At the other end of the line, John could hear a peal of laughter.

"Oh, I have no doubt you will find Sherlock, but does he want to be found? Last I talked to him, he was desperate to remain hidden. Especially from you." Moriarty sung. John felt his heart drop into his stomach.

"Wh-what do you mean?" John stammered, doing his best to mask his emotions. He knew Moriarty was just trying to get a rise out of him. He was doing a damn good job too.

"Oh nothing, I'm sure. I left some of my…goods there when I was there last, you see. I'm sure with excellent detective skills, he's managed to come across part of the stash by now. The seven percent solution, if I recall, always was his favorite." Moriarty said innocently. John became enraged at Moriarty's implications.

"Sherlock is clean! He wouldn't betray me that way. If I didn't know any better, Moriarty, I'd say that you are just trying to make me believe that Sherlock shouldn't be trusted, and therefore, isn't a valid source for the progress we've made in locating him! You know what you can do Moriarty? You can take your implications, shove them up your arse, then go crawl in a hole and die!" John said, suddenly impassioned. He took the liberty of hanging up the phone, so he wouldn't have to listen to one more word from that spider. He repeated the earlier process of releasing his tension to get a grip on the new anger before he broke something. When he opened his eyes, he saw Mycroft and Lestrade staring at him. When they noticed his noticing them staring, they quickly cleared their throats and turned back to the map.

John huffed and walked over to the couch. He flopped down, much in the manner of its normal resident, then steepled his hands under his chin. If it works for Sherlock, maybe it will work for me. He contemplated the conversation he had just had with Moriarty. He hadn't seemed quite bellicose enough, especially there at the end. The Moriarty John knew wouldn't have let John just figure that out. He was too clever for that. So why…? Unless Moriarty wanted him to think those things! Maybe Moriarty wanted John to think that Moriarty John to think that Sherlock was suffering some strain that wouldn't allow his mind to function to its full capabilities. Maybe Sherlock really wasn't up to his full mental capacities. There was that whole conversation about the roses. Why would Sherlock lie about that though? Unless they actually did have some significance and Sherlock really didn't want John to come. But why wouldn't Sherlock want me there. Unless he thinks that my coming was dangerous. But my not coming would be dangerous for him. John was hopelessly confused within his own mind.

He snapped his eyes open, willing the confusion to clear from his head. He wouldn't worry about whatever Sherlock was afraid of. He just needed to find Sherlock. John knew he could take care of himself, so Sherlock's fear was unfounded. He closed his eyes again to think about the clues. The roses were really the only clue. Why had Sherlock lied about them? Roses…red, have thorns, Fibonacci. No No No. Roses…Roseberg Hall, of course!

John snapped up off the couch, ran for his coat and shouted "I know which it is, I'm sure of it!" as he bounded outside. Mycroft and Lestrade paused in surprise, and then started to follow him. John stopped at the bottom of the stairs when he heard the door of the flat close.

"No! You can't come. He said he's going to kill Sherlock if you come!" John cried out.

"Now John be sensib-"Mycroft started. John cut him off with a glare.

"John, mate, you need back up! You of all people should be cautious of Moriarty!" Lestrade said desperately, trying to get the point across.

John glanced down in consideration, then looked back up with a new flame in his eyes.

John nodded then walked back up to the two men, and whispered into each of their ears separately. He then loudly proclaimed "I know that Sherlock is at Smaug Auditorium. If you try to follow me, I will shoot you. I can't have you endangering my chances of rescuing Sherlock!"

John turned and ran down the steps and out the front door. As he started off towards Roseberg Hall, he smiled to himself. He was going to get Sherlock.


	20. Predators

"Sebby, Oh Sebby, darling. The game is almost over." Moriarty sung in his most annoyingly high pitched voice. Sebastian, who was sitting on the couch, carefully cleaning his beloved gun, just huffed and continued cleaning. Moriarty frowned at this. He craved attention, just like any other genius, and the lack thereof he was getting from Seb was infuriating.

"Sebastian Moran, you better stop brushing me off, or I will shove my foot so far up your ARSE that you won't be able to do anything but moan about it for the next month!" Jim said menacingly. He was putting on his best angry face, but he was soooo changeable that it was hard for him to stick to any one emotion for long. At this statement, Sebastian glanced up one more and gave a small chuckle.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" He chuckled licking his lips in a way that was downright predatory. Moriarty just sighed. This was one of the many reasons he loved his Colonel.

"Sebbby..." Moriarty whined as he leaped over to the couch and plopped down on Sebastian's lap, straddling the Colonel's legs with his own, "this little game will soon be over. Sherlock will be dead. What will distract me after that!" Sebastian carefully put his rifle back in its case, carefully not to knock the smaller man off of his lap while he did this.

"I might be of some assistance there." Moran growled as he pulled the man on his lap into a tight hug.

Moriarty hugged him back briefly before pulling back, jumping off of his perch and saying"later, darling. Now we have worked to do. I know for a fact that John Watson knows where Sherlock is located. Despite his clever attempts at trying to fool us, he knows that Sherlock is at Roseburg Hall. We must set up there and be ready to burn the heart out of Sherlock. Then-" He glanced back to Moran with a smoulder "-we can get back to business." Moriarty skipped away, knowing the other man would follow. Sebastian took a moment to compose himself as he gathered up his rifle. Damn, that man... He shook his head to focus back on the matter at hand. He collected his case and trotted off after the sexy ever consulting criminal, eager to get this over with.


	21. I Am Safe In Your Arms

Sherlock checked the disposable phone for about the millionth time in the past 20 minutes. The deadline was quickly approaching, and he found that the closer it got, the more at peace with his decision he became. Sure, he would love for John to come gallivanting in with a whole S.W.A.T. Team to take down Moriarty, but Sherlock was nothing, if not realistic. John was smarter than the average human, but he was no Sherlock. He was sure he had given too little information for John to actually find him. Besides, if John tried to rescue him, there was a very good chance that Moriarty would take him out, no matter how many men stood between him and the intended target. No doubt Moriarty had some backup plan in place to dispose of John, no matter if the consulting criminal himself survived or not.

Five minutes left.

Sherlock considered sending that text to John. He opened the drafts and read over the message once more.

John, for all intents and purposes, this is my note. While I am not physically "pulling the plug" on my life, as they say, it is because of my own actions that I will die in the music hall tonight. Moriarty tricked even me by coming back from the dead. It is obvious to me that he only told you about half of the game. He seems to have left out the part where, when you come to save me, you die, and I go free.

Them though of living without you, My dear John Hamish Watson, is deplorable. Before you, there was me. I was alone, and I believed that that protected me. I didn't want friends. Everyone else was much too dull. I realize now that the world was monotonously grey. Then you came into my life and the world burst into color. You took time to understand me, and care for me. You made me realize that, even if alone protected me, then a life of safety would never do. You are amazing, smart,sexy, and above all, you. I feel as though love is too weak an adjective to describe the feelings I have for you.

I am afraid, my dear Watson, that you have rather spoiled me. You see, I know that I cannot live without you. You have become my heart, you have become my very soul, and I can live without neither. It is with this thought planted firmly in my head that I go now to death. I cannot risk you. A world without you is a sad world indeed, and one in which I cannot survive. I am forever yours, John, know that.

I have purposely kept my location a secret, so you would hopefully not find me in time. I have, in effect, sealed my fate. You may hate me for this revelation, but, my blogger, I would loathe myself with an all consuming passion if I, through my own actions, allowed you to come to harm. Though I long to see you one last time, I know this cannot be, so I shall settle for declaring my affections here.

I, Sherlock James Holmes, love you, John Hamish Watson. I'm sorry I never told you.

Love, Sherlock

Two Minutes left

A tear rolled down Sherlock's face as he finished rereading the message. A lump swelled in his throat. He typed in John's number, bowed his head, eyes shut, and pressed send. His whole body seemed to go limp as he resigned himself finally to his fate.

At this point, he heard a bang from somewhere in the music hall. Sherlock grimly smile, figuring it was Moriarty, coming to kill him. He threw the phone away from himself, and steeled himself for a final confrontation with the madman. There was a slim-very slim mind you- chance that Sherlock could get out of this situation, and he would fight hard, or die trying. The door at the end of the hall burst open, and in rushed-John?

John made it to the music hall with five minutes to spare. He threw some money at the cabby, who looked relieved to rid himself of the passenger, and dashed quickly into the hall. He dashed inside, and started methodically searching the building. At some point, he heard his phone ring, but ignored it as he didn't have time to waste on checking it. He ran through room after room until, finally, he flung open the door to the large performing hall, and there at the other end of the hall, was his consulting detective. John ran to him, and mid stride, yelled "Sherlock!" elated at finding his friend alive. At that moment, however, a shot rang out from the direction of the stage. A white hot pain ripped through John's left arm, and he couldn't help but fall to the ground. Almost immediately, another shot rung out, and from the stage, a loud thump was heard. John wildly looked around the room for the source of the gunfire, but his vision was distorted from the pain in his arm. He could feel a lot of blood rushing out from the wound, and did his best to stem it with his non-injured hand. John held on as long as he could, but when he felt darkness creeping around the edges, he knew he wouldn't last long.

A comforting set of arms appeared, encircling John and pulling him close to a warm body.

"Sher" John muttered, still hanging on. He had something important he just had to say.

"John? John, no!" Sherlock cried

"Sherl'ck," John said, desperately trying to get three important word out, "I Love you." having completed his mission, John could fight no last sensation he felt was a wetness dripping down on his head. It was a soft pitter patter, like rain. He smiled as he thought back to the last- and only time he had taken Sherlock to a play. Les Miserables.

Don't you fret, M'sieur Sherlock  
I don't feel any pain   
A little fall of rain   
Can hardly hurt me now   
You're here, that's all I need to know   
And you will keep me safe   
And you will keep me close   
And rain will make the flowers grow.

As John hummed softly, the darkness enveloped him, burying him swiftly beneath its impossibly heavy weight.


	22. Showdown

A single shot rang out as John and Sherlock closed the gap between themselves. Sherlock saw John's face turn ghostly pale as he crumpled to the ground, clutching his left arm. Sherlock froze in panic, but only for a moment. All the anger he had dammed up inside himself over Moriarty's attempts on his and John's happiness burst out, washing over him in a wave of red. Adrenaline flooded ever cell in his body as he snatched John's gun out of the back of his waste band, turned towards the stage where the shot had been fired from, and fired with military precision at the sniper who was sneakily concealed behind the large concert bass drum in the upstage left corner of the stage. In his adrenaline fueled state, he only needed one shot. Just one shot to make the bastard crumple lifelessly to the ground. He wanted to do so much more. He wanted to tear the sniper limb from limb. He wanted to kill the man tortuously slowly, possibly by tying him down and letting bamboo grow through him. He wanted to strike the fear of God- no, the fear of Sherlock Holmes (a wrath much deadlier by his standards)- into his heart. He wanted the man, just before he died, to look into his eyes, and know that. Nobody. Fucks. With. Sherlock. Holmes (and by extension, his John).

Sherlock took a calming breath, knowing that if he took time now to ensure that any of that could happen to the sniper, there was a good risk that John could... No, Sherlock couldn't even think that. He spun quickly to the huddled mass on the floor that was his flatmate, and immediately blanched. There was so much blood... Sherlock quickly stooped and pulled John into the safety of his arms. He examined the wound in the arm. Upper arm, not good. It may have nicked the artery, which would explain all the blood, although it doesn't seem enough. We may have gotten lucky and it missed, but if this bleeding doesn't stop...

Sherlock couldn't even bear to finish the thought. A few tears that had been pooling in his eyes rolled free and dripped down his nose into John's hair. He only just managed to contain the accompanying sobs. John started humming something that was hauntingly familiar. He racked his memories for the source, came up with the solution rather quickly. Les Miserables, the (only) musical(opera really) John had taken(forced) him to go see. The last song that Eponine sang, after she had taken the bullet for her love, Marius.

No no no No NO! John can not die! Not now, not ever, and most certainly not because of me! He felt John go limp in his lap, and immediately sprang into action. John was unconscious, most likely due to blood loss, and unless Sherlock could stabilize him, John would... die. Sherlock immediately grabbed the bottom of the t-shirt he wore under his silk robe and the bottom. He tore a long strip off, then bundled up and pressed it to the wound. The white almost immediately turned crimson red. Sherlock reached for the silk tie and ripped it from around his waist. He wrapped it just above the wound, and pulled tight. He looked desperately around for something he could use to complete the tourniquet, but to him dismay, found nothing. Maybe the barrel of that sniper rifle would work. If I put on the safety, or unload it, it should be okay. Sherlock figured. He tore another strip from his shirt, as the other was nearly all red now, and place the new clean piece against the wound, tied the bandana as tight as he could, then made a mad dash for the stage. Once there, he scrambled to the sniper. He quickly extracted the gun, and flicked the safety on. As he turned to go back to John, he just barely heard a wheezy chuckle. He spun back to the sniper, who was laying in a pool of his blood, almost, but not quite dead.

"You think-wheeze- that you can- wheeze- beat Moriarty? He's clever, clever than you. You're just a pitiful little pup-cough wheeze- trying to play with the big dogs." The sniper started laughing maniacally, well as maniacally as he could. Sherlock seethed at the derogatory remarks the dying man was making. He rounded the drum and straddled the man on the ground.

"Who are you then, to know so much?" Sherlock spat "No don't tell me, you are Moriarty's newest toy. You soak up every word he says because he makes tells you exactly what you want to hear. I have news for you, idiot. You've been played. You've been used. Moriarty doesn't care. About anyone. He just lies." The man started laughing again, which just made Sherlock angrier.

"You think you know so much don't you. Truth is, I've known Moriarty longer than anyone. We grew up together, I've always been there for him. Sure, I went away for bit, with the army. But I came back. I always come back. I know Moriarty doesn't care, but if there was one person he would make an exception for, it would be me, Colonel Sebastian Moran. So go ahead, believe what you want. But trust me when I say that Moriarty will burn the heart out of you, and I am the one who made it possible." The man, Moran, got quieter with each word, and a crazy glint showed in his eye as he finished the sentence. He started coughing uncontrollably, each cough sounding worse and worse. Finally, blood appeared at the edges of his mouth, he gave one last almighty cough, which spewed blood all over Sherlock's shirt, and even his face, before he shuddered, then died. When Sherlock saw the light exit his eyes, he snapped back to his senses, realizing that Moran had distracted him from his mission. He cursed loudly, then took off downstage, then up the aisle back to where John was laying. He skidded to a stop when he reached the top, as he noticed a new arrival.

"Moriarty." He said simply as he dropped the rifle he was holding.

"Sherlock" the other man said. He seemed calm and composed, but Sherlock could see through the carefully composed exterior and see the rage seething underneath. Sherlock smirked.

"It would seem that Moran was telling the truth. You really do feel something for him. I can see the twitching of your jaw muscle, the throbbing of your carotid artery, you are clearly angry. Seeing as John is currently unconscious on the floor, and you wanted him hurt, you wouldn't be angry about that. The only other significant event that took place was me shooting your sniper." Sherlock explained in a gloating fashion.

"You think you are so very clever Sherlock, but this game is not over yet," Moriarty snarled as he pulled a gun out of nowhere, "you see, you may have taken out my last rook, but I am perfectly poised to take out your queen." Moriarty leveled his gun at John's supine form. Sherlock could do nothing but stare straight ahead, and try to time his jump perfectly. If he could just block the shot from hitting John, perhaps he could save him. It might hurt John a bit if Sherlock landed on him, but at least he wouldn't be dead.

Sherlock and Moriarty each stood, eyes locked on each other, ready to act on a moments notice. Sherlock saw the resolve harden in Moriarty's eyes, and the involuntary twitch of his trigger finger as he started to pull the trigger. Sherlock, with an almighty bellow of "NOT JOHN, YOU LITTLE FU-" dove to cover John, just managing to miss landing on him, instead landing just barely in front of him. He felt his left knee jar against the ground rather painfully. The last of his shout was drowned out by a shot.


	23. Rescue

Sherlock was utterly confused-which rarely happened. He had heard a shot ring out. Moriarty was the only one in the hall with a gun. The sniper was dead, Sherlock's gun had been abandoned on the floor next to John awhile ago, and last Sherlock had checked, John had been unconscious. So why hadn't Sherlock felt any pain, save the pain from his knee's impact with the floor. And, pray tell, why, had Moriarty crumpled to the ground.

Just to be sure, Sherlock spun to check John. He was still unconscious on the floor. The bleeding seemed to have, at least, slowed, and there were no other injuries on John's body, save the bullet wound in his arm. He scrambled up and over to Moriarty's body, limping heavily, but doing his best to ignore the pain in his knee, eager to solve this new puzzle. As he approached the body, he observed a bullet hole in the right side of his head. The placement and angle of the exit wound in relation to the entry site suggested the bullet was fired from a lower elevation, from the direction of the stage. Sherlock turned to look, wondering what on Earth was going on.

There on the stage, he saw the most glorious sight. Standing center stage, stood Mycroft Holmes, gun lowered at his side, looking calm and collected, as if he had not just shot the world's only consulting criminal.

"M-My, what are you- How did you?" For once, the consulting detective seemed at a loss for words. Even from the distance, he could see the quiet fury in his brother's eyes. This was the dark, dangerous side of Mycroft Holmes that no one ever saw. The side that was hidden away behind the charismatic politician that dominated his life. Few people ever saw this side, and fewer lived to tell the tale. Another person was behind Mycroft, and he slowly walked up to meet the quietly enraged British Government.

"Myc, its okay. Everyone is fine, you can drop the gun." On the last two words, Lestrade closed the gap between the two, and clamped down firmly on his boyfriend's arm. The Detective Inspector's touch seemed to do the trick. Immediately, Mycroft's grip on the gun loosened, and the darkness left the politician. He turned into Greg, who pulled him into a hug.

"Its okay, love. Sherlock's fine." Greg cooed, gently rubbing the younger man's back.

"Utterly sickening." Sherlock shouted from the top of the auditorium, quickly loosing his patience now that the puzzle was solved, "Now if you two would be so kind as to separate yourselves for a few minutes, John could really use our help!" Sherlock quickly turned back to his blogger and limped as quickly as he could to where he was lying supine on the floor. He whipped out the disposable phone, which thankfully still had a minute left on it. He quickly dialed 999.

As soon as someone picked up on the other line, Sherlock shouted "I need an ambulance ASAP at Roseburg Hall. John Watson has been shot in the arm, possibly nicked the brachial artery and I have been told to inform you that Mycroft Holmes will have to get personally involved if you do not get here in the next five minutes. The patient is critical and needs a hospital and treatment immediately." He paused for a moment to catch his breath, and before the dispatcher on the other end could say anything, the call cut out. The time was expired. Sherlock chucked the phone as hard as he could away from himself, only controlling it enough to ensure that it wouldn't hit either of his-as much as he hated to admit this- saviors.

The two men, upon hearing Sherlock's plea, had released each other and raced up the aisle. When they got to the top, and looked to where Sherlock was, they immediately raced over to the two men on the ground. The detective inspector murmured some explicative, while the politician angrily muttered "Moriarty". If I hadn't already killed him, I should very much have liked to have a go at him, this time with my knife. Mycroft thought darkly. He was pulled from his musings by warm fingers interlacing with his own. He turned his head to stare into Greg's eyes. The men shared a glance that showed each other's appreciation that it wasn't the other lying on the floor. Both men had dangerous jobs that made the possibility very likely.

The three conscious men could do nothing but wait the arrival of the ambulance. Sherlock's threat seemed to have worked, for the ambulance could be heard no longer than four minutes later. When the sound of the siren reached the group, Greg took it upon himself to go lead the paramedics to their location. The paramedics rushed into the hall, and quickly loaded John onto a stretcher. Sherlock was much to numb to try and argue with the paramedics about riding with John. They carried John, who was almost as pale as Sherlock, out, and everyone vacated the hall. Greg had disappeared early on, probably to explain the situation to the driver of the second ambulance, which had the body of James Moriarty-for real, this time-loaded in it. Finally, it was just Sherlock and Mycroft.

"My..."Sherlock whispered. He was still crouching where John's body had been. Mycroft had sunken into a chair at the top of the auditorium. Upon hearing Sherlock, he stood up and walked over to where he was crouched. He placed a hand gently on his little brother's shoulder in reply.

"My...thanks for..you know, that thing you did. It was...um, good."" Sherlock muttered. Mycroft just gave the shoulder a small squeeze. Neither Holmes was good with emotion, but when it was just them, they could understand each other perfectly. Mycroft withdrew his hand, and was surprised when Sherlock came with it. The younger Holmes wrapped his arms around his brother and buried his face in the neck of a very startled Mycroft.

"Mycroft, promise me he'll be okay." Sherlock said as he stifled a small sob. Mycroft awkwardly patted him on the back.

"There, there Sherly, John will be just fine."Mycroft said, attempting to console his brother. Sherlock pulled away to glare at his brother.

"Only John can call me Sherly!" he proclaimed. Mycroft chuckled and pulled Sherlock back into him.

"Fine. Lockie, he will be okay." Sherlock gave a small harumph, but didn't pull away. The two Holmes brothers stayed in the hug until Lestrade came back in. He smile and leaned against the doorway as he took in the tender scene.


	24. Uncertainty

Sherlock sat alone in 221B, unusually still and quiet. He wasn't in his Mind Palace, he wasn't thinking through some case. One thought occupied his mind. John. After the events at the music hall, Lestrade and Mycroft had forced him to go home and try and get some sleep. He wanted to fight them, to go to John's side and never leave. But at this point, he was numb. He was so numb, he couldn't find the usual brashness with in himself to fight back. He had received only a text from his brother, telling him of John's condition.

John is currently being operated on. Too early to tell anything for sure, but he lost copious amounts of blood. I will ensure he gets the best treatment money can buy. Do not worry.

-MH

Sherlock could read between the lines. There was a chance that John could not make it through this. The very thought of John, lying dead on a table sent uncontrollable shivers through Sherlock. This total lack of control scared Sherlock. He had always been so in control of everything, but now, the most important part of his life was spinning away, completely out of control. The normally emotionally repressed man could feel a panic attack building quickly, and had absolutely no desire to let the episode take him over.

I need to get out of my head, do something normal. Take my head off of this whole situation. What would John want me to do. Sherlock pondered for a moment, and decided that, since there was no way he would be able to sleep, he might as well try eating. He had absolutely no desire to leave the flat at the moment, unless it was to rush to the hospital and wait for John, so he meandered into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, and was dismayed to find a dearth of leftovers. He rummaged in his Mind Palace for a recipe he could attempt with the ingredients in the fridge. It was a little known fact that, if he could be bothered with it, Sherlock was actually quite a competent cook. He decided that he was in no state to make anything complicated, so made some pasta. It kept his mind engaged enough to be off of his companion, who was possibly dying, in the hospital.

The meal was prepared, and Sherlock did his best to eat it, but it tasted like cardboard. Everything around him was unusually dull, and he felt quite lethargic, despite his inability to sleep. All he could think of, was John. How John would make him eat if he were here. How John would bring back the proper colors of the world if he were here. How John would make him sleep, make him lay in bed until he was too bored to do anything else. Sherlock needed his John back now.

Sherlock wondered if this is what life was like for John when Sherlock had left. John believed him to be dead. Did the world lose all appeal, like it was now for Sherlock. The world seemed unbreechably dark. Sherlock may be capable of making light, but he was useless without his conductor.

Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He had to go to the hospital. He had to go to John. He had to go home. Sure, 221B was his and John's flat, but if home is where the heart is, then Sherlock's home was John. This new revelation was backed by the lonely, cold atmosphere that currently inhabited the flat. When John was home, it was quite the opposite. It was warm and comforting and just full. When John was in the flat, it felt like home. But now, it just felt empty, mocking.

Quick as a flash, Sherlock jumped out of his chair, and ran out the door. He couldn't wait for a taxi, so he bounded off down the street to St. Bart's. He did his best to ignore the pain in knee from where he had banged it on the ground earlier. It seemed horribly ironic that John, whose currently hung in the balance, should be doing so in the very place where Sherlock had faked his own death. It was a terrible irony, and Sherlock couldn't help but think that this time, fate would take the turn for the worst. It was a fifteen minute run-even with his bad knee- to the hospital. Once outside, he took a second to compose himself. He dramatically burst through the doors. He strode to the reception desk. The effect was ruined a bit by the limp that was prominent in his stride.

"I demand to know the status of Doctor John Watson. I assure you that if you do not fulfill my demands quickly and accurately, I will have you fired." He snarled threateningly. The nurse at the desk quivered for a moment, as if unsure whether to retort or do as he said. Sherlock simply raised one eyebrow, as if he was questioning why she was still here if she didn't have the information. The lady quickly turned, huffed, and walked away. She returned quickly with Mycroft right behind her.

"Sherlock, I told you to go home." Mycroft sighed.

"And here I am,"Sherlock retorted, for once not caring if others saw his emotions, "My only home is with John." Mycroft looked at him, analyzing. Finally he sighed.

"Very well, come with me."

Sherlock complied, and Mycroft led him back into the hospital to the laboratory Sherlock normally used. Mycroft walked to a table and pulled out a stool. He waved his hand to indicate that Sherlock should do the same. Reluctantly, Sherlock complied.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly, " John should live. The bullet missed his artery, but he lost a lot of blood. The doctors gave him a transfusion, and as long as he doesn't have a bad reaction, he will be fine. However, he may never regain full motility and function in that arm." Sherlock was dazed. He was over joyed that his doctor would live, but was simultaneously horrified that John might be crippled. Sherlock just nodded, unable to speak. Mycroft looked a bit worried.

"Sherlock, are you sure that you are alright?" He questioned. Sherlock just nodded and stood up. His knee, in protest of the hard work it had been put through earlier, promptly collapsed under him.

"Perhaps not then." Mycroft muttered. The politician reached down to pull his brother up. Sherlock gave him a sheepish smile and allowed Mycroft to assist him back out into the hospital. Mycroft pulled him into a private room and made him rest on the bed, with his knee elevated. The elder Holmes then disappeared into the hall way. Sherlock sighed and sunk back into the pillows. He was relieved that John would be okay. John will be okay.

A rush of sleepiness over came him. Just before he passed out, he heard the door open and the sound of something being wheeled in. Too big to be a cart He thought sleepily.


	25. Waking Up

John felt as if he was slowly fighting his way up from the bottom of a pond. Everything was murky and cold, and he felt strangely confined. The longer he fought, the lighter his surroundings became and the more he felt he could but surely, he made his way through the surface, but instead of breaking through the surface, gasping for the breath he should surely need, everything went dark once more. But not for long.

Mycroft had been at the hospital ever since John Watson had first been admitted. He had patiently waited, foregoing his usual duties in favor of consoling his brother, who frankly, needed him more at than the country did at this point. Anthea was perfectly capable of filling in for im at meetings, and important decisions could be solved through secure phone calls. Right now, his younger brother was hurting.

Mycroft was roused from his light napping in the unforgiving plastic hospital chair by rustling from one of the two beds in the room. He glanced toward his brother's bed first, despite knowing that he was not the source of the movement. After Mycroft had gotten him to sleep, he'd had a doctor come to check Sherlock's knee. It was a grade 3 knee sprain-not severe enough to require surgery, but still a bit not good. He had the doctor give him some painkillers that would let his brain rest longer than the normal amount of time allotted. He would need this time. Soon he would have to suffer through some intense boredom, as he wouldn't be able to do much on his knee for awhile. Just maybe, Mycroft pondered John will be able to... alleviate some of that boredom.

The elder Holmes turned to John's bed then. He observed the man struggling in his sleep, obviously-well, to Mycroft, at least- about to wake up. The British government knew his brother should be rousing soon as well, and decided that he should take his leave- for now. His brother and John had some things to sort through on their own.

The brightness didn't burst suddenly in front of John in a blinding supernova. It didn't suddenly blind him, or even just appear. The brightness came like the moon. In a slow progression of slivers; starting as nothing more than a hairs breadth wide, but ever so slowly building, budding into a beautiful full picture. The light was bright, but not blindingly so. Everything was white and bright, but that's not what hurt. John is what hurt. Everything was achy, but the pain was the worst in the upper regions of his being.

With the brightness came vision. Before,his sight was impeded by the murkiness of his surroundings. He couldn't see anything. Now he could see a room. Specifically the ceiling of a room. The longer he could see, the more he saw. The longer he could see, the more he could distinguish between the different parts of himself and what was him and not him. He could tell the pain was in his arm now. He could hear beeps around him. EKG his brain provided.

He tried to sit up, and was pleased to find that it wasn't too difficult. Every movement pained his arm, his body was achy, but he could manage. He was used to soldiering on in the face of pain. This wasn't too awful. The awful thing was the sight that greeted him when he turned his head to look about the room. There was Sherlock, lying on a bed, with an IV drip. He seemed to be unconscious, but could be just sleeping. He was mostly covered with a sheet, minus his left leg, which was in a brace. Of what John could see, Sherlock didn't look too bad. What scared him is what he couldn't see.

Absolutely anything could have happened after he had blacked out. Sherlock had no doubt confronted Moriarty once more, and when it came to that spider, Sherlock didn't have the best judgement skills. He could have gone too far, been seriously injured. Any amount of time could have passed since then. John didn't know how long Sherlock had been out or even how long he himself had been out. He took small comfort in the fact that he and Sherlock were not surrounded by frantic doctors, but being a doctor himself, he knew that the lack of doctors didn't make them safe. Sherlock could be in a coma, or under anesthetics, or could just be sleeping. John didn't know.

"Sher'ock" he managed to croak out. He attempted to reach towards the other man, which was an unfortunate decision on his behalf, as Sherlock was on his left, and his left arm was injured. He cried in pain and frustration as his arm proved just how useless it currently was. At the sound of John's anger, Sherlock stirred in his bed.

"Jawn." he mumbled. He stirred about some more, as if attempting to rouse himself.

"Jooohn." he moaned.

"Sherlock" John managed, louder this time. He needed Sherlock to wake up. John had to know what happened. He needed to know if Sherlock was okay. He needed his Sherlock to be okay.

"John." Sherlock said. His voice sounded normal,and John could see his eyes struggling to open. A rush of relief flooded through him as his greater fear were squelched Sherlock was almost awake, not lost in a comatose state as John had been fearing. When Sherlock finally opened his eyes, John let out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

"Sherlock. God, you're okay." John breathed. Sherlock rolled over on his side and moaned loudly.

"What-Are you Okay? What's wrong?" John said frantically upon seeing Sherlock's pain.

"No it's fine John. It's all fine. My only injury was an unfortunate jarring to the knee. It should be fine, just stiff from inactivity after overuse. The real question is, are you fine." Sherlock said, an unusual tone to his voice. He sounded...happy.

"Yea, no I'm fine Sherlock."John said, a bit preoccupied with the new sentiment Sherlock's voice was conveying. Silence descended over the couple. It wasn't awkward, just comfortable, like most silences the two shared.

"John, I need-" Sherlock said just as John said- "Sherlock, listen-"

"Oh, you go first." They said simultaneously. They shared a small giggle, then John indicated with a small nod-he was smart this time and avoided arm movement- that Sherlock could go first. The younger man gave a small gulp, then proceeded.

"John, there is something I need to tell you. Firstly, I must confess that I am not good with sentiment, and strong surges of emotion with in myself unsettle me. My earlier actions-they were based on one of these hasty emotional surges, and-I-I think you should know that you are special to me, for reasons unbeknownst to even myself. You keep me interested. You are so easy to read, yet you surprise me time and time again. You are unswervingly loyal, and the only one who tolerates me. You put up with me at my worst, and keep me in check at my best. I do not know much about emotion-whatever I had learned, I made a point to delete. What I do know, is that it hurts me to be away from you. I want to be in your life, a part of your future. I want to be there when you wake up, even if it means being temporarily bored while I wait for you. I want to be there when you go to sleep, even if I don't wish to sleep. I want to spend more time with you, and-" Sherlock rambled.

"Sherlock." John interrupted. He absolutely couldn't believe what Sherlock was saying. He was elated; Sherlock wouldn't just say these things. He meant them, truly. He could see how difficult and unnatural this was for his friend, so he put his out of his misery. Sherlock had stopped and stared at the interruption, waiting for John to speak.

"I love you too." John said.

A grin that Sherlock rarely wore-in fact, only ever wore for John- stretched across the consulting detective's face.


	26. First Night Back

The car finally pulled up outside of 221 Baker Street. The ride home from the hospital had dragged horribly long, especially with two the two Holmeses battling it out in the back seat. Sherlock was in a particularly dark mood because his pain killers were wearing off, and he wasn't allowed to have more until he consented to eating. Mycroft had made a joke about Sherlock's eating habits and that, of course, had launched World War Three. John and Greg, who were seated directly across from each there had simply rolled their eyes in mutual suffering,and let the two brothers battle it out. So when the driver had finally made it to the flat, it was with no small relief that John clamored out of the back of the car. It was a tad awkward, with his currently limited left arm, but he managed by himself, for which he was glad. Sherlock, on the other hand, somehow managed to retain his usual grace, even with a bum knee. John felt a small twinge of jealousy.

"Well this was fun," Mycroft sneered, "Do try and get yourself kidnapped again, Sherlock. Maybe next time we can make a weekend out of it." With that, the doors to the car shut, and it quickly departed. As soon as it turned the corner, Sherlock sagged into John.

"Joohn," he whined, "Jawwn why can't I have more medication. The doctor said that it was okay to use them like a crutch for the first few days, and it is still a first day; I very much wish to use them."

"No, Sherlock," John snapped, "the doctor also said that you needed to eat, and to make sure you don't take too many. You know what these pain killers could do to you..." John trailed off, mentally cursing himself for playing that card. He didn't want to bring up Sherlock's old addiction habits, but the git had been terribly annoying while John himself was in a considerable amount of pain. Plus, John didn't think he could handle it if Sherlock became addicted once more.

Sherlock shot John a murderous glance before straightening back up. He resolutely limped to the entrance to their building, unlocked the door, and did his best to swoop majestically up the stairs inside. The effect was marred by his inability to rely on his left knee, and instead looked rather like a small bird that hops everywhere, occasionally flapping its wings to regain balance. John found it rather enduring. He made his way up the stairs after Sherlock, chuckling quietly to himself the whole way.

When he reached the top, a new thought pushed its way to the forefront of his mind and barred all other logical thought from his mind. There was Sherlock, bent over the arm of the couch, arse in the air. John groaned internally, but it was lost in the wave of attraction that overcame him. The consulting detective had an absolutely gorgeous rear end to match his other gorgeous features, and John couldn't resist. The one functioning center of his brain told him he should stop. Tat he should go make tea, or something else to distract him; however, his body had different ideas. He unconsciously stepped forward so that he was directly behind Sherlock, no more than and inch between them.

"John, I must ins-" Sherlock said as he twirled up and around to face John. The doctor could see his eyes widen momentarily in surprise before their mouths clashed. The kiss was gentle at first. John wanted to start out nice, as he wasn't sure Sherlock had done any of this yet. John, surprisingly, broke away first.

"Sherlock, you are gorgeous!" he said breathlessly before he attacked once more. John could feel the tension in his partner's body, so in an attempt to relax him, John gentally nibbled the consulting detective's lower lip. Sherlock shuddered in surprise, then melted further into John's arms.

"Oh God," Sherlock said on the next break for air, "John, I love you so much." John moaned in agreement as they resumed kissing. Sherlock tentatively to charge by running his tongue over John's lip, beckoning to be let in. John allowed it with a small chuckle. The two men kissed passionately for what felt like hours, tongues wrestling, scoping out each other's mouths. But it was only minutes later that John pulled away with a moan and barely managed to ask "bed?"

Sherlock vehemently agreed, and pulled John into his room. Once inside, he hesitantly reached down and pulled off his shirt. John groaned in approval before ripping off his own shirt. He then pulled Sherlock into a more chaste version of their make out session in the living room. This time, he focused more on Sherlock's impossibly long neck, sucking and licking his way down to the other man's collarbone. Sherlock was barely able to contain his moaning at this point. His neck was a very sensitive area, and John was masterful with his tongue.

"Jo-John," Sherlock managed to get out, "John, I want- I want you to- to you know." The usually put together man was having trouble with coherency. Instead of trying to tell John, he simply reached down and started working on undoing John's zip.

"Oh God, you mean- you really want me to-" John said, pausing his kisses.

"Yes, John. I want you to fuck me." Sherlock said, moaning from the loss of the warm tongue on his neck. John groaned loudly at these words, then pushed Sherlock roughly down o the bed. He ripped his zip open and shoved his pants down. He flung them somewhere in the room, before leaning over and kissing Sherlock's neck again. He worked his way slowly down Sherlock's torso, licking and kissing and suck. Sherlock mewled helplessly under John. Finally, John made his way to Sherlock's waistband. He looked up at Sherlock, kiss-swollen lips paused just above his belly button, fingers poised on the button to Sherlock's zip.

"Are you sure Sherlock? We can take it easy the first time." John said sadly, as if he really didn't want that to be an option.

"Sherlock grabbed the back of John's head and pulled him back up into a deep kiss.

"John," he said when they paused for air, "If there is only one thing I'm sure about in this life, it is you. I love you, irrevocably. You are the only one I ever have, or will ever want. Of this I am sure. Of you I am sure. " John beamed down at him, then crushed their mouths together once more. As the were passionately snogging, John reached down to Sherlock's trousers and managed to get the zip fully undone. He then slowly slid down the long body beneath him, and slowly relieved Sherlock of his pants. Sherlock gave a small gasp as John threw his pants away, then turned to get his own pants back. Sherlock watched as John fetched his wallet from his pants and pulled out two small packets. He stared as John opened one pack and pulled out a condom. He groaned as John slowly, teasingly rolled the rubber over his semi-hard member. The consulting detective felt a twitch in him own cock when John turned back to him, looking absolutely ravenous.


	27. Love Like Whoa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So first time writting slash :3

"You, know, I never would have thought that sounds so... Victorian could ever sound so incredibly sexy," John purred as he, and there really was no other way to describe it, stalked towards Sherlock, " Some how, anything you say is just so incredibly arousing." At this point, John was standing directly above Sherlock, a formidable sight in his birthday suit, save the rubber sheathing on average length, but thick cock. The younger man could only gulp and wait for John to do what he wished.

Suddenly, John attacked Sherlock's mouth with a ferocious hunger. He nipped and sucked on the other man's lips, commanding an entrance into his mouth. His tongue darted in once Sherlock complied, and his tongue tangled with Sherlock's. While Sherlock was distracted with the snogging, John's hands roamed over the rest of his body, playing with his nipples briefly before swooping lower. John pulled back briefly to rip open the second packet with his teeth. The hand that had been groping Sherlock's arse pulled back, but was soon back, this time slick with lube. Sherlock moaned as John positioned his fingers at Sherlock's entrance. Slowly, John pushed in one finger, carefully pushing pass the tight ring of muscle.

"Ugh,'" John and Sherlock groaned in unison, " God Sherlock, you're so tight. I can't wait to feel it around my prick." John whispered into Sherlock's ear. John wanted to see if he could turn Sherlock on as much with words as Sherlock had turned him on. It was evident from the groan and hardness he could now feel beneath him that it worked. This turned John on even more, so he thrust a second finger into Sherlock, wanting to be inside him quickly. He started scissoring his fingers, stretching the tight muscle. After a minute, he squeezed a third finger in. With his new finger, John began trying to locate his partner's prostate. It was evident he found it when Sherlock nearly screamed out John's name. With his free hand, John began gently stroking Sherlock's member. The consulting detective seemed to be lost in the pleasure, and could only groan and moan and make general noises of extreme pleasure. John could stand it no longer. He pulled all of his fingers out, and quickly placed the head of his throbbing cock at Sherlock's entrance. He positioned himself directly over Sherlock with his hands on either side of his love's body, leaning more on his right, since his left arm still could not bear much weight. He bent down to lovingly kiss Sherlock, and simultaneously started pushing in. He felt Sherlock's responses against his lips. Sherlock sucked a breath in and held it.

"Relax, Sherlock. I don't want to hurt you, but If you don't relax, this is going to hurt. Are you sure you're ready, we can...get off another way, if you need." John pleaded, secretly hoping Sherlock would say something along the lines of "Fuck it, just pound me!"

"I assure you I am just as ready as you are, John. As much as I would like to say "Fuck it, pound me!" I'm sure I would not appreciate the repercussions. I want to do this, just give me a second." Sherlock smirked.

"How did you-? Oh, never mind," John chuckled, then grew serious, "Sherlock, I love you so much. I just want you to be happy, and not hurt, well any more hurt than you already are."

"I love you too, John. More than you could ever know." Sherlock proclaimed before grabbing John's head a pulling him down into a passionate kiss. John could feel Sherlock relax into this kiss, and gently started advancing. Once he got his length in, he stayed in place for a minute, letting Sherlock adjust to his thickness. The heat and tightness felt so glorious, that t was all John could do to restrain himself from pounding into him. He heard Sherlock give a small groan, and understood it to mean that Sherlock was ready for movement. Not wanting to disappoint, John pulled out, then speed up a little going back in.

"Mm, John, harder." Sherlock pleaded. John groaned at Sherlock's deep needy voice, and complied. He pushed in harder, speeding up each time he went in. Soon, he was hitting Sherlock's prostate, and then they were both moaning. Sherlock had his long legs wrapped around John's waist and tucked under John's legs. John could feel his love's toes curl against his shins. John leaned up, wanting to watch Sherlock come undone beneath him. He pounded as hard and fast as he could, feeling his orgasm building. He used his left arm, which couldn't support him much, but was surprisingly okay for wanking, to pump Sherlock's cock, wanting him to come in tandem with him. This orgasm was threatening to be the most powerful he had yet to experience, he only hoped Sherlock was feeling as much pleasure as he was.

It was amazing watching Sherlock shudder with each hit to his prostate, feeling Sherlock around him, hearing the desperate moans. Pre-cum was leaking in a steady steam out of Sherlock's cock, so John started pumping furiously in time with his thrusts. With an almighty bellow, Sherlock shouted "John!" then spilled all over the both of them. This, combined with Sherlock's spasaming body beneath him and clenching cock around him pushed John over the edge.

"Sh-Sher" he managed to get out before spilling in the condom. Both men moaned loudly as they rode out their orgasms. When they could finally function again, John rolled carefully down onto the bed next to Sherlock.

"Wow." John murmured. Sherlock chuckled before saying "Yea."

"So," Sherlock said after a few moment of quiet, "I assume that what we just did was okay for you?" John turned his head to gaze at him. He looked confused.

"Well, I only meant- You always contradict anyone who says you are gay, and you've never been with another man before. I wasn't sure the experience would be pleasurable." Sherlock said nervously. John smiled warmly and placed a hand on Sherlock's cheek.

"Sher, I still don't think I'm gay, but I know one thing. I know for a fact that I am Sher-sexual. That was the best orgasm I have ever had. Period. I had trouble with being called gay before because I was in denial. Now that I realized just how impossible I was, I've given up caring. I love you. Whether you are a guy or girl is tangential. I have an all consuming passion for you that has slowly been taking over my life since I met you." John explained.

Sherlock could feel tears building behind his eyes, so he leaned forward to bury his face in John's shoulder.

"I have been intrigued with you since you first walked in to the laboratory in Bart's that first day. I didn't know why, I just knew I wanted to unlock your secrets. I could always read you like a book, but somehow you manage to constantly surprise me. I don't understand, but I love it. It's part of what makes you, you. You somehow manage to put up with me when no one else can. You are patient, and above all, you don't bully me. You don't try to change me. You just work to help me adapt." Sherlock explained.

A comfortable silence descended over the two. Both men had poured their hearts out and had nothing else that needed to be said that night. So each fell asleep, content in his love's arms.


	28. Hurt

It wasn't the first time they had argued. It wasn't even the second, or the third. No, their relationship was founded on disagreement that lead to progression for both men. Generally, Sherlock did something wrong, John tried to explain, Sherlock would sulk, John would get angry, both men would yell. But after a cool down period, the partners would come back together to discuss why each of them was wrong, and their relationship would continue ahead, stronger for the new understandings between the two. Arguing was nothing new.

But this time was different.

This time, Sherlock pushed John to the edge, to the very brink, and John wasn't quite sure if he could stop himself from toppling over. This time could have ended them both, and it all started with a near ending of Sherlock.

The case had been going on for a week. Due to a miscommunication, the partners in solving crime had arrived at the scene only to find the scene wrapped up. All the evidence had been bagged and tagged, the body moved, and agents mostly gone. Sherlock had calmly whipped out his phone and called Lestrade. Despite Lestrade's apologies, Sherlock had been rather cross with him, and made several demands-which were quickly fulfilled- that included full access to the evidence, photographs, body, etc. However, this could bot make up for firsthand visuals of the crime scene that Sherlock so desperately wanted.

Sherlock did his best with what he was given, but there was something missing. Some crucial piece of evidence that he required to fully understand. It was driving him insane. By the end of the week, he had finally deduced where he could find the information-after no sleep for five whole days- and run off, by himself, to pursue the information. When John realized where he had gone, he rushed right after his boyfriend- yes they had officially progressed to this stage. Sherlock had run off to a warehouse that was flagged as suspicious for gang activity. He had gone alone, and unarmed. John was furious. Single handedly, John fought his way through no less than twenty gang members, found the room where the gang leader was holding Sherlock, rescued his drugged boyfriend, and escaped. He managed to sustain very minimal injury, and got Sherlock back to their flat- where, John was embarrassed to admit, a drugged Sherlock had coerced him into some rather fantastic sex.

The fight started the next morning-well, afternoon really, as Sherlock slept for a long time under the effects of drugs and pure exhaustion- when Sherlock fell into his regular chair at the kitchen table. John had been up for a bit, and had tea ready to serve. So he placed a cuppa in front of Sherlock, took one for himself, and sat down across from Sherlock. John didn't say a word, just sipped his tea with one eye brow raised.

Sherlock was oblivious at first; he seemed rather intent on his tea. Finally, h glanced up and caught sight of John's face. He groaned before saying "I suppose you want me to apologize for running off yesterday."

"That would be a good start, yeah," John replied, "but you need to do more than apologize, Sherlock. You need to change. What you did yesterday was just plain stupid. No matter how frustrated you were, you should have asked for backup. I care about you, I don't want to see you get hurt." Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"John," Sherlock groaned, "I am a grown man, I do not need help. I don't need people. Furthermore, I am who and what I am, nobody can change me."

John was rather taken aback. When Sherlock said he didn't need people, John thought that it obviously included him. I thought we are in a relationship. That means we take care of each other, help each other. Not necessarily need each other, albeit, but still trust each other enough to help each other. Also, change is good, we should want to change for each other. I changed in a big way for him, why can't he make this little change for me? John thought. These thoughts only served to make John more and more angry.

"Oh, I see then. You don't love me enough to change for me. Not even a little. Don't need people, guess that includes me. If you don't need me, then fine, I'll leave" John shouted. He stormed upstairs before Sherlock could muster another word. John had let his anger get the best of him, and now needed to get out of the flat. He grabbed his emergency duffle and stormed back down the stairs and out of his and Sherlock's flat. He stormed out into the pleasant afternoon, not knowing where he was going, or caring for that matter. He was just so angry and confused. He really thought Sherlock had loved him, but if this was the case, why had Sherlock been so adamantly opposed to making a small change for John? Why had he said what he had?

John's head was swimming with questions that he couldn't answer, so his feet lead him to the one place he could always go for advice. His mom, Janie Watson.


	29. Hurt?

Janie Watson lived by herself in the house she and her late husband had shared since they first got married. Her husband had died a few years ago from a stroke, her kids had gone off to live their lives, and she was left alone. She didn't mind too much. She had never been one who enjoyed big parties with lots of people, but she wouldn't some company now and then. She wished her kids would visit. But no, it was too late for that.

When Harriet had come out all those years ago, John had sided with his sister, but she had been forced to agree with her husband. She knew if she sided with the kids, he would leave her, and she couldn't bear that. Hamish Watson wasn't a particularly nice or loving man, but he was decent and he didn't abuse her or the kids. Jamie couldn't bear the thought of him going, so she sided with him. She never guessed how adverse the effect would be. Harriet had been kicked out, and John, disgusted by the weakness of his mother and the cruelty of his father's decision had fled to the army. The only contact she 'd had with either of her children since was a note from John years later letting her know that he was being deployed to Afghanistan.

Janie had just gone in the kitchen and put the kettle on when she heard a knock on the door. She hadn't been expecting anyone, not this early in the morning, so she hurried to the door and looked out the peephole. She flung open the door once she saw who was on the doorstep.

"John?" She asked, wondering why this man, who looked so different from the John Hamish Watson she had known, but was undoubtedly the same, was here after so many years without contact.

"Hey mum" He said as he stepped forward to pull her into a hug. They stayed locked in their embrace for a minute, which was long enough to bring tears of joy to Jamie's face. She pulled back, eager to reconnect with her son, and noticed that his face was a little blotchy and there was a glint of anger in his eyes.

"John, honey, what's wrong?" She asked, her concerned mom-ness coming through. John hesitated for a moment, then walked past her into the living room.

"Can we talk? You always used to give the best advice, and I could really use some now, Mom." John spoke, his voice a little scratchy. Just then the kettle whistled, startling both Watsons.

"Sure honey, just let me get you some tea, then we can talk."Janie assured. She bustled into the kitchen to get the tea, wondering what on earth would be bad enough to send John back here for advice, but praising the Lord that he had come here for advice. She walked back into the living room with the tea, set one cup down for herself, then handed the other to John.

"So, How are things." She asked rather awkwardly, as she didn't know much about her son and his life now. She wanted to get to know him though. Wanted to learn about his life, about him.

"Mom... let me start off with this. I am in a committed relationship- that is I think we still are- well it's complicated right now because- Oh hell! We had a huge fight this morning and I don't know what to do!" John fumbled, becoming quite distraught as he voiced his problem. Janie watched his son in concern.

"Oh Honey! It'll be alright. Who is the lucky lady?" She said in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Well, mum, his name is Sherlock Holmes." John said, figuring it was best to just spit it out quickly. He was nervous about telling his mother this, as she had sided with his father all those years ago. Janie stared for a moment.

"You mean that detective whose been cleaning up London? Good On Ya John, he's cute!" She said, savoring the look of shock on her sons face.

"You- you mean you don't mind?" John asked, incredulous. Janie just gave a small smile and shook her head. John beamed and hugged her. When the two finally released each other, they sank into chairs on opposite sides of the small coffee table and cradled their cups of tea.

"So John,what happened. You look quite distressed." Janie coaxed.

"Oh hell! I'm not even sure anymore! Sherlock claimed that he doesn't need people, and that hurt my feeling and then he said he wouldn't change, not even a little and I was just so mad, because I love him so damn much and I just want to see him safe! But the obstinate git continues to put himself in danger and refuses to take small measures that would make me feel much better about his safety." John rambled. The dam of emotion had broken, and it was flooding out of his mouth at one time. Janie just took it all in, considering.

"Well, honey, if you really love him, you shouldn't want him to change, or try to make him change. Some people just can't be changed, and you can't let that phase you." Janie said patiently. At that moment, the doorbell rung piercingly. Both mother and son turned to the door, curious a to who could be calling. Janie got up to open the door.

"Mrs. Watson, I am Sherlock Holmes, and I need you to let me see your son. I understand I hurt him and he may not wish to speak to me at the moment, however, I very much need to talk to him."a deep voice resonated from the doorway.

"And what makes you think my son is here?" his mom replied, going on the defensive.

"It's okay, mum, I'll talk to him." John found himself saying. Janie glanced back at him, but stepped out of the doorway. The Sherlock rushed in past her into the living room.

"John." he breathed at the same time as John said "Sherlock."

"I'll just be in the kitchen, John. Let me know if you need anything." John's mother called. The two men stood, looking at each other, then both at the same time said "I'm sorry." The both giggled after a pause of surprise.

"John," Sherlock said, grabbing onto said boyfriends hand, "I- I apologize. While there are many people I do not need, and never want to meet, you are not one of them. I do need you, always. And if I have to make a few minor adjustments to my lifestyle to keep you, so be it."

"No, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I should never ask you to change. You're fine the way you are. I love you the way you are," John retaliated, pausing briefly to kiss Sherlock's hand that was currently clasping his own, "Don't change, please don't stop being the wonderful. fantastic person you are." John followed up with a kiss directly to Sherlock's lips. He couldn't help but notice that Sherlock already had changed in some ways. The old Sherlock would never have taken his feelings and needs into account, and definitely would never have shown such malleability for another.

"Well, if you two are done snogging in my living area, perhaps you two would like to go out for dinner? I know of this lovely Italian place!" Janie interrupted.

This wasn't the last argument the couple had, nor was it the worst. But it was their first serious argument, one that could have ended them. But each man was able to get over his pride and admit that neither was perfect. With the resolution came the realization that they very much needed each other and should show it better. So that's what they did, just as soon as they got back to the flat.

All throughout the dinner, Sherlock had been mercilessly teasing John. He started by gently rubbing his partners thigh, slowly working up and down the leg, making John shiver every time Sherlock's hand approached his groin. Then in the cab on the way home, Sherlock had taken it a step farther by brushing over the slight bulge forming in John's pants, then full on palming the doctor's crotch through his trousers. It was all John could do to not moan obscenely, thus alerting the cabby to their back seat ministrations.

Once inside the flat, John wasted no time turning on Sherlock and locking him in a deep kiss, intent on revenge for the teasing. He ran both hands around the detective and into the back of the other man's waistband, grabbing two handfuls of perfect arse. Sherlock moaned, and ground his hips forward into John's sizeable bump. this distracted John just long enough for Sherlock to turn the tables, pushing John against the wall. The detective began kissing down John's neck, using lips and teeth and tongue. John couldn't help but rut right back against Sherlock. The army doctors whole mind was focused on that little bit of contact, that brilliant sensation. Which is exactly how Sherlock managed to get the handcuffs on him.


End file.
